


Tick Tock

by melanoms



Series: Power Play [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assassination, Birthday Sex, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drinking Games, Established Relationship, F/M, Murder Mystery, Poisoning, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sexual Tension, Trust Issues, john's shameless use of david attenborough, sherlock can't play video games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25389496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanoms/pseuds/melanoms
Summary: Nine months of house arrest at 221B Baker Street: what could go wrong? For starters, murder masquerade parties, assassination attempts, late nights drinking, and a serious prank war between Sherlock and John.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/You
Series: Power Play [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838776
Comments: 3
Kudos: 65





	1. October: Masquerade, Makeup, and Murder

Leaning over the table, you batted your eyelashes as your ankle monitor bounced up and down.

“I have one question before you go, detective.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “And I might have an answer for you.”

“If given the opportunity…” You bit your lip. “Would you let me jump your bones?”

He shot up from his seat.

“I will see you next week.”

As Greg started to walk to the door, you chased after him. Your fingertips grazed his forearm. But upon contact, he spun around and jabbed a finger in your direction.

He bore his eyes into you and you held up your palms in defense.

“What is with you guys?” You cocked an eyebrow.

“Why are you asking me such inappropriate questions?”

“Question, Greg. It was one question.”

“Don’t you try and—wait. Guys?”

“Yeah.” 

Greg put a hand on his hip and tilted his head to the side.

“So I’m not the only one you’re…”

“No.”

Dragging his hand down his face, he leaned back and released an exhale. You glanced to the side and furrowed your brow.

“I mean, I asked John but that conversation didn’t last long.”

Greg’s face scrunched in flabbergasted confusion. 

“What the hell is going on with you two?”

“I mean, I did almost stab him. But not on purpose! I was just throwing the kitchen knives at the wall.”

“Not John!”

You narrowed your eyes at him. 

“Who? Sherlock? He took my gu...I mean, there are no firearms in this flat.”

Closing his eyes, Greg drew in a sharp inhale. He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“So the answer is yes?”

“No!” He threw out his hands. “What is going on between the two of you that you’re asking me about, about…”

“There’s nothing  _ wrong _ .”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Are you forgetting that I’m a detective too?”

“It’s nothing. There’s, it’s nothing.” You crossed your arms and shook your head at the floor. “He just, it’s nothing.”

“Does this have something to do with the fact that he’s not here today?”

“No.” You tightened your arms around your ribs. “They’re just at the hospital with  _Molly_ . Pretty, perfect, never-been-to-prison Molly.”

“You’re  _ still _ jealous of her?”

“I’m not jealous!” you pouted. “And who said anything about, about me being…”

“John.”

“Well, he clearly can’t read people like I can. Probably why he hasn’t ended up in prison either.”

You upturned your nose and glared at the ceiling.

“I know that couple attacked you,” Greg sighed.

Your eyes flickered to him.

“And I know that,” he cleared his throat, “that you didn’t want to harm that family.”

“I’m paying for their therapy. They have no idea but…” You swallowed and shook your head.

“What’s going on?”

“He…” You sucked in a breath and grimaced at him. “He won’t touch me.”

“And you’ve tried to, erm…” Greg scratched the back of his head.

“Yes! I thought if there was anything for me to do while I’m on house arrest, it would have been, well, Sherlock Holmes.”

You shifted your weight and tangled your fingers in your hair.

“But, I-I don’t know. I think maybe there’s something wrong with me. That I’m too, or not enough, or something. That’s why I wanted to know if...”

Biting your lip, your eyes darted around before meeting Greg’s again. He shrugged.

“Well, from where I’m standing, there certainly isn’t anything wrong  _ with you _ .”

After glancing you up and down, he winked at you before dashing out of the flat. Leaving you with a mouth hanging open and staring at the closed door.

The next morning, Sherlock woke with a grunt and the feeling of your body pressed against his hips. His eyelids fluttered as you leaned down and pressed your lips to his. But Sherlock furrowed his brow at the gentle tickle along the side of his face.

When you were fully upright and still straddling his hips, you swiped the brim of your pirate’s hat and wiggled your shoulders.

“Thought you could use some inspiration for tonight.”

He cocked an eyebrow at your absurd, albeit flattering, pirate’s costume.

“How did…” With a sigh, he leaned his head back. “Mycroft.”

“Mycroft? No.” You beamed at him. “John.”

With a chuckle, Sherlock returned his gaze to you. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side. 

“It’s a themed gala. Not a costume party.”

“I wish I could go with you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not going because it’s fun. It’s for a case.”

“You’re sure it’s one of the two?”

“Certain. Just need to look at each one to confirm. They’ll both be there tonight.”

“Well, my brilliant detective. You still have quite a few hours before you get to masquerade a murder confession from a pedophile.”

“Hebephile.”

“Right.” 

Holding the brim of your hat in place, you leaned back down and smiled at him.

“I know you’ve been too busy for us to, well…”

You cleared your throat and shifted your hips. Sherlock bit his lip and glanced to the side. Taking that as your invitation, you lowered your lips to his ear.

“But I believe this would be just the occasion for you to, um, whip it out.”

With a grin, you transferred the pirate hat to his curls. Sherlock’s grip tightened as the corner of his lip upturned in a smirk. 

You bolted from his lap, swiping your sword from the nightstand just in time to block his blow. 

In a symphonic clamor of metal on metal, you walked backward out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Smirk seemingly permanent across his lips, Sherlock lunged forward to attack. But you smacked your blade against his. 

However, on your follow through, your sword sliced the air and sent one of his beakers crashing to the floor.

Your wide eyes darted from the sizzling acid and back to his face.

“Sherlock, I’m so sor—”

His eyes flickered from your bare feet, bare legs, and, well, eventually to your face.

“Just don’t step in it.” He furrowed his brow. “Why didn’t you wear boots?”

“Because they wouldn’t fit over my ankle—”

You gasped right before ducking to avoid the swing of his sword through the air. Good thing you weren’t wearing the hat anymore. The feather wouldn’t have made it.

Scurrying into the sitting room, you pounced on his chair and spun around to face him. One foot on the armrest and the other nestled in the seat, your weapons continued to dance in the air.

Typing away at his own chair, John’s eyes remained transfixed on his screen.

“I refuse to stitch up any injuries resulting from this,” he muttered.

You whipped your head around to raise your eyebrows at him. 

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

“Yup.” John continued typing away.

You returned your gaze to Sherlock. But your eyes blew wide open at the aim of his sword. Feeling the tip of the blade on your shoulder, his eyes lit up as he sliced through the strap of your waistcoat.

You threw your hand to the torn fabric and stared at him with wide eyes.

“Please.” He tilted his head to the side. “You’re hardly decent even when fully clothed.”

Sleeves of your white blouse billowing in the air, you hopped down from his chair. 

“If you wanted me naked, you could just ask.”

“I know.”

Sherlock spun around and strutted back to the bedroom. Mouth hanging open, you threw yourself to his chair and let out a huff. You prodded the rug with the tip of your sword.

“Excited for your date tonight?” you grumbled.

“Not a date.” John shook his head behind his screen.

“Sure. And I’m not going crazy.”

Closing his eyes, John’s typing paused just long enough for him to shake his head before continuing. You let the sword clatter to the floor and leaned forward.

“Do I not look good?”

“Not commenting. Not in this context.”

“Is it because I defiled myself by going to prison? Or because I’m just a common criminal?”

You gestured to your ankle monitor.

“There is nothing common about either of you.”

“John.” You rested your elbows on your knees and clasped your hands. “What is wrong with me? Does he not, not...anymore....”

You glanced down and sucked in a breath. After a swallow, John closed his laptop and set it aside.

“You’re supposed to be the one who understands behavior and motivations.”

“What can I say?” You threw up your hands before crossing your arms and slumping in your seat. “His people skills are rubbing off on me. And not in the way that I’d like.”

“You two are utterly dense sometimes.”

You gave him a deadpan expression. But John only shrugged in reply. He swiped his laptop from the end table and started walking to the stairs. With a glimmer of sorrow in his eyes, John gave you a few parting words before retreating to his room.

“It’s not about you.”

_ No, you’re not getting it. You’re not seeing the pattern.  _

Drawing in a breath, you buried your face in your hands.

John was right...as always.

That evening, you looked up from your phone as John entered the sitting room in his tuxedo.

“Ow, ow!” you howled at him. “Smoking, Watson!”

Arms outstretched, he spun around for you. You propped yourself up on the couch and raised your eyebrows.

“Now, I’m really disappointed I can’t go with you. I’d be your date in a heartbeat.”

“Thank you.” John smirked. “We’re just there for a confession though.”

“Well, if anyone can extract a confession from someone it’s—”

“You,” Sherlock replied. “But unfortunately, you’re indisposed.”

He nodded to your ankle and clicked his tongue.

“I was going to say you.” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“I know.”

You blinked a few times before tearing your gaze away from the dashing detective. Rising to your feet, you gulped before taking a few steps toward him. 

You hovered your hands over his shoulders. But when Sherlock narrowed his eyes, you gingerly placed your palms over the luxurious fabric of his jacket. You bore your eyes into his bow tie.

“I’d go with you if I could.”

“You can’t dance.” 

Scowling, you threw your hands back and glared at him.

“You can’t possibly—”

“We aren’t going to a club. The only kind of dancing you know how to do is with university athletes. Or to lure in desperate, power hungry men.”

“Sherlock.” John cleared his throat.

You sucked in a breath. But before you could reply, your mobile pinged—quite desperate for attention. Withdrawing it from your pocket, you glanced at the message.

You closed your eyes and shook your head with an exasperated sigh. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you. Before you could walk away, he clamped his hand around your wrist and yanked the mobile from your hand.

Crossing your arms, you rolled your eyes as Sherlock punched in your passcode and read your most recent text message.

_ If he won’t play game, perhaps I can tag in?  _

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock tossed your mobile aside and stomped back to the bedroom. You barely caught it before gravity slammed it to the floor.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you hissed an inhale before throwing your back to the couch. John sat on the edge of the coffee table and raised his eyebrows.

“If there’s anything you need—”

“I’ll call Jim. He’s dying to visit.” 

“I mean it.”

Examining the look in John’s eyes for a breath, you gave him a nod before staring at the ceiling.

“What’s her name, John?”

“Who?”

“You know.”

“There’s, there’s no one. No name.”

“Sure. Just don’t forget.” You smirked at him. “I’m the liar of 221B.”

Just as John started to rise to his feet, you turned your head to look at him.

“Can I see your mask?”

With a smirk, John handed you his gilded disguise for the evening. Tracing your fingers along the beading on the side, you smiled.

“You two are superheroes for the night. Have to protect your identities.”

You handed it back to him. 

“Along with everyone else there.” He shrugged.

“But that’s the art of disguise, John. Hiding in plain sight.” 

“I’ll see you when we get back. Phone if you need  _ anything _ .”

“Will do.”

Upturning the collar of his coat, Sherlock stomped through the sitting room and straight to the door.

“Stop lingering, John. Let’s go.”

Pursing his lips, John gave you a small wave. The door was already closed, barely allowing the airborne end of Sherlock’s coat to escape through. 

You shook your head and breathed a laugh.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” 

John dashed out the door. 

You popped to your feet. Pressing the heels of your palms to your forehead, you spun in a circle and groaned. You whipped out your mobile and sucked in a breath. 

But at the top of the inhale, the door cracked back open. 

Frozen in place, your eyes went wide as Sherlock poked his head through the door.

“Bye.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and tilted his head to the side.

“Bye,” you whispered.

Pursing his lips, he gave you a nod before closing the door once again.

Throwing yourself in Sherlock’s chair, you waited ten minutes before retrieving your mobile. You hit call and growled into the receiver.

“Get over here so we can get this over with. And you better not dress me in red.”

“But Eve,” Jim cooed. “O negative looks so good on you.”

Eyes narrowed behind his silver mask, Sherlock scanned the ballroom. John crossed his arms and shook his head.

“A fundraiser for the children’s wing of the hospital.”

“Of course. Makes it easy to target your victims when they’re your patients.”

“This man…” John choked on the word, “is lucky that you are talking to him. Because if it were me…”

“What’s to say I won’t?”

Sherlock turned to look at him. John swallowed and his eyes darted away.

“I can’t let you go to prison either.”

“They wouldn’t send me to...right.”

Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet as one of his targets strode from the dance floor. 

“Fancy a drink?”

But before John could answer, the detective was already strutting to the bar. Eyes locked on the vile doctor, Sherlock, against his conscious will, redirected his gaze when the target waved to his wife.

His heart leaped into this throat upon seeing the unsuspecting spouse engaged in conversation with a woman in a black gown. 

Who looked, from behind, suspiciously like you.

Sherlock marched over and unceremoniously yanked on her arm. But his fingers flew away from her skin when she yelped in protest.

“Excuse you! Get your hands off me!”

“My apologies. I mis-mistook you for—“

John was already dragging him away.

“She is on house arrest,” he hissed.

“But she could still, I thought…”

“Stop thinking about her and start thinking about—“

“I don’t need you to tell me how to catch a criminal.”

Sherlock jerked backward from John’s grasp and adjusted the button of his jacket. He strutted to the bar to continue his observations as the two women scattered.

Moments later, you stood in the women’s toilet in black trousers and a white dress shirt. When a woman exited the stall, you eyed her as she washed her hands.

Offering her a hand towel, you raised your eyebrows.

“Care to refresh your fragrance, ma’am?”

She furrowed her brow. “How could you…”

“Courtesy of your husband. Asked all the attendants to keep a bottle of Kasbah Nights available. Just for this evening.”

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“No, it certainly could not.”

Precisely 6 minutes and 18 seconds later, she was dead on the marble floor. 

You threw your hand to your earpiece and growled.

“See you soon, asshole.”

“But we haven’t gotten to the best part,” Jim sang.

You closed your eyes and drew in a breath.

“Isn’t it bad business for you to start killing your clients?”

“Since when have I ever been interested in good business practice? Besides, didn’t you enjoy it?”

“Yes. She was—”

“Third stall from the left.”

Following on Jim’s orders, you dashed into the stall. You traced the fabric of a white ball gown hanging on the back of the door. You shook your head.

“We are done here.”

“Marry me?” Jim snickered. “Although we wouldn’t enjoy the same legal benefits as you did in America. Isn’t that why he did it? So you couldn’t testify against him.”

“I’m leaving.”

“My, my, Riley. I thought I would have found your sex toys by now. Didn’t think you’d be one to hide your inclinations.”

“Third drawer down.”

You heard him open the drawer and gasp in delight.

“Ohhh, knife play?”

“No, that’s for your eyeball when I get back there.”

You started to stomp out of the stall. But Jim clicked his tongue into the microphone.

“Don’t you want to get the husband too?”

“I’ll save him for when I’m not standing next to a corpse, waiting to be walked in on at any moment. Besides, I’m not his type.”

“Get changed and I can give you just enough time to kill it on the dance floor.”

With a hard swallow, you rifled through the dress, mask, and additional accessories Jim left for you. 

“Just think about all those girls,” he mused.

“You don’t care.”

“No, but you do. You and your funny little emotions.”

Pulling out the murder weapon, you scoffed.

“Jim, this is fucking brilliant.”

“Finally! You are woefully unpleasant when you haven’t been taken care of. Now will you hurry along and, you know.”

“Will anyone else be affected?”

“Rest assured, you can get back here and touch me anywhere with any part of you. Today is not the day you accidentally murder anyone.”

  
  


7 minutes and 29 seconds later, you were dancing with a predator. Your stomach churned at the way he eyed the pearls along the trim of your mask and the crimson upon your lips. But right as you were going to seal his fate with a kiss on the cheek, a hand yanked you away.

You spun around and smacked into Sherlock’s chest.

“Pardon you!” the deadman whined.

“Yes, please do. Just need a moment to speak with my wife.” Sherlock gave him a grin that would haunt him the rest of his life.

One hand tangled with yours and the other around your waist, Sherlock smirked.

“Got you.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But you must have me mistaken for someone else.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head to the side. “We’re doing this?”

“Dancing?”

“Yes, I admit that even I am surprised at your skill.”

“With that silver tongue, you certainly must not have plans to bring anyone home with you tonight.”

“Honestly, Riley, I can help you out in that department,” Jim hummed in your ear. 

“Not just anyone. I came here just for you.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes from behind his mask.

You stroked his back with your thumb. “And what makes you so certain I’m the type of woman to run away with a masked stranger?”

“We can call it a hate fuck if that’ll make you feel better,” Jim teased.

Sherlock lowered his gaze. “There were never two suspects to choose between.” 

“I beg your pardon?” You tilted your head to the side.

“Only two to catch. The husband is the predator while the wife is the jealous murderer. Only way she could cope with him preying on teenage girls was by killing them. With the assistance of the consulting criminal, of course. She’s far too dense to have staged the bodies in such a way. Victims never stood a chance.”

You gritted your teeth.

“And by victims,” he pulled you closer, “I mean—“

You placed your hand on his chest and pushed away. 

“This is incredibly inappropriate conversation.”

“He just caaaan’t help himself!” Jim giggled.

Sherlock stumbled over his feet, smacking your shin in the process. You leaped back with a hiss.

“I’m not stupid enough to wear my ank—“

Jim sighed. “Although I can’t wait to give it back to you. I’ll admit, you wear it better.”

Sherlock smirked. “So you do recognize me?”

You marched away from him in a huff, only inciting Sherlock to chase after you.

Leaning on the bar, John sipped on his drink and chuckled—delighting in the evening’s events far more than he expected.

In a corridor, you spun around and jabbed a finger at Sherlock.

“I have one more thing I need to do. Then I need to get the hell out of this place.”

“Turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight?” Sherlock smirked.

“Fairy tales?” Jim whined in your ear. “So two fake deaths ago.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to your lips.

“Your lipstick.”

“Good,” Jim hummed.

“It contains a specially formulated allergen. Just for him.”

“Look at the clever boy go!”

“If you don’t shut up, I really will  _ have  _ to murder someone else tonight,” you growled.

“Very well.” Sherlock shrugged.

Latching his palms to either side of your face, he brought his lips to yours. He trailed his hand across your waist and to your low back. 

In reply, you tightened your arms around his neck to draw him close, missing the imprint of his body on yours.

When Sherlock withdrew, he wiped the crimson from his lips. Well, more accurately, he smeared it even more across his face.

“Well, you’ll have to start over.” He shrugged.

“I will see you at home.”

“Yes,” Jim replied. “Yes, you will.”

As you marched away, Sherlock called after you.

“Next time James, to pick a shade that flatters us both!”

“Next time, I’ll just kiss him myself!” Jim seethed in your ear.

Back at the flat, you stomped up the stairs to a harmony of grumbles under your breath. You instantly started undressing as soon as the door swung open.

Abandoning your mask on the couch, Jim raised his eyebrows as you shimmied out of your dress and strutted to the bedroom.

Tossing a heart, a human heart, in the air, he followed you like a curious shadow.

You deftly changed, shooting daggers at him with your eyes as you buttoned one of Sherlock’s shirts.

“You owe me.”

“I don’t know what you’re racking up favors for, Riley. But I’m quite keen to figure it out.”

“Thought you liked some mystery in our relationship, King James?”

He looked you up and down. “You’re doing a terrible job of it.”

“Comes with the added benefit of actually leaving this place.” 

You tossed your hair out from under the collar.

“Here I thought these four walls would be your favorite place to spend your exile...oh wait.”

He snickered. 

You threw yourself to the edge of the bed and shot out your ankle. After securing the monitor around you, his fingers lingered on your skin.

You sharply withdrew and sprang to your feet. Marching to the sitting room, you threw open the front door and shot your hand through the opening. 

“Good night, Jim.”

He tossed the heart to you. You caught it in without blinking. But after a moment, you scrunched your face and threw it back to him.

“This isn’t even ours! I don’t want to know where the hell you got it from.”

“She looked at me funny.”

With a hum, Jim took three steps toward the doorway. He leaned next to you, inspiring the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end with the heat of his breath.

“Until next time, my muse.”

“Next time, I get to plan the evening.”

He traced his thumb along the side of your face. “I look forward to your call.”

“Careful, Jim.” You batted your eyelashes. “The others who listened ended up dead. It’s what I do.”

“And what a way to die.”

You slammed the door closed behind him. Rolling your eyes, you strutted to the bedroom. Throwing yourself to the mattress, you vacantly stared at the ceiling.

But, succumbing to bodily need, you fell asleep against your conscious will.

Minutes (or was it hours?) later, the weight of the bed shifted. You leaned your head against Sherlock’s neck and grumbled.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“I knew.”

“‘course you did.”

“Did he take…”

Sherlock nodded into your hair. With a smirk, you rested your head back on the pillow.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed.

“You already—”

But he held his breath as you rolled over to face him. Brushing one of his curls aside, you wrapped your hand along the side of his face.

“I’m sorry for leaving. Every time we...I’m sorry.”

He furrowed his brow and focused his gaze on a loose thread in the sheets. You took a deep breath and traced his cheekbone with your thumb.

“Does it help? When I…”

He nodded. 

“Good.”

You laid on your back and invited him to you. Sherlock rested his head on your shoulder and you fell asleep with your fingers massaging his scalp.

Silently vowing to continue the ritual you started since you returned to 221B: leaving his scarf on your side of the bed anytime you were away from it.

Away from him.


	2. November: The Drunken Truth

Your eyelids flickered open as your jaw clamped down on the silken threads between your teeth. Heart racing, you bolted upright.

Instant regret.

Ringing in ears. Pounding in skull. Hurt. 

Everywhere.

Furrowing your brow at the tie secured around your wrists, you threw your head back to the pillow. Whimpering on impact, you smacked Sherlock’s bare shoulder with your bound hands.

“‘elp.”

Right eye spasming, his matted helmet of curls flew through the air as he turned to face you. After fumbling through the sheets, he loosened the knot before flopping back over; having finally found a use for the superfluous ties he always received.

Barely cramming your wrist through, you freed your hands and untied your gag; spitting out a few remaining threads. You kissed the nape of his neck and furrowed your brow.

“Did we...because I admit I’ve thought of it…”

“That’s what you said last night,” he grumbled.

You snickered. “Oh, I’m sure.” 

“No.” He tilted his head back. “That’s literally what you said last night when we…”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and waved his hand through the air. “Something.”

“Alright.” You squeezed his shoulder and he closed his eyes.

In the bathroom, you tended to your bodily needs before washing your hands. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you tilted your head to the side as pieces of the previous night started to peek through your memory.

You re-entered the bedroom to the sound of Sherlock muttering.

“...naked in the tub.”

“What?” You slid in bed next to him.

“Anderson is naked in the tub.”

“That’s...odd.”

Wrapping your arm across his chest, you brought him closer to you and sighed. You closed your eyes. But after a few breaths, they bolted back open.

“Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

“I just peed in there.”

“Congratulations.”

“No, Sherlock. I just...with Anderson.”

“S’okay. He wouldn’t be into that sort of…”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he twisted around to stare at you. You shrugged and he threw himself from the bed.

But, one palm magnetized to his forehead and the other to the mattress for balance, he teetered back and forth. Calling upon every ounce of physical composure (and then some), Sherlock marched to the bathroom.

Well, marching was the intention. Stumbling was the execution.

He yanked back the shower door and pointed to the door to the kitchen.

“OUT!”

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock covered his eyes to recalibrate. 

Loud. Far too loud.

Anderson jolted awake and smacked his head on the side of the tub. Upon computing his state of undress, he attempted to cover himself. Sherlock dragged his hand down his face and jabbed his finger at the door.

“OUT!”

Anderson scrambled to his feet. In a meek attempt to shield himself, he scuttled out of the bathroom. Only to gasp at the unconscious audience in the sitting room.

From behind, Sherlock started shoving Anderson out the front door.

“But, but my clothes.”

“Not my problem.”

Sherlock slammed the door closed. 

Upon the piercing ring, he squeezed his eyes shut. The sound inspired a reply of aching groans from the previous evening’s guests.

“Christ, Sherlock.” 

Greg tilted his head up from the couch. His hair was ruffled to and fro, matching the disheveled buttons of his dress shirt and partially rolled-up sleeves.

“Could you, a little...a little quieter. And for God’s sake, could you put on a, a shirt.”

Sherlock bent his knees and threw out his arms.

“NOT REALLY!”

But he drew in a sharp inhale and threw his hands into his hair, slamming his eyes shut to block out the loud.

In a tank top and one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns you hobbled into the sitting room.

“Sherlock,” you hissed. 

You sucked in a breath. But before more words could escape your lips, you pointed to the bedroom. He wrinkled his nose and teetered over to you. 

But your eyes blew wide open at the sight of Molly, grumbling herself awake, in Sherlock’s chair.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you barked.

“You, you invited me.” She glared at you.

“I did no—” You reeled your head back. “Oh shit.”

FIFTEEN HOURS EARLIER

Leaning on the armrest of Sherlock’s chair, you raised your glass and beamed at Greg and Molly.

“To celebrate my gracious release from prison, I wanted to thank each and everyone one of you for your help in securing my freedom.”

John gave you a nod. “We’re just happy to have you home.”

“I never could have imagined having such incredible people in my life. So, I suppose it’s a good thing that God is kinder than my imagination.”

You turned to look Sherlock in the eyes. “To friendship.”

The room echoed your toast and you clinked glasses with Sherlock before pressing your lips to the rim. While everyone else set down their drinks after a single sip, you continued to gulp your dirty martini until it was empty.

Throwing your glass down, you shook out your face.

“WHEW! I can’t bake for shit. But I can mix a damn good drink.”

“Wait.” John furrowed his brow. “You knew? About the baking?”

“Oh, of course I did. This one would never lie to me.” You gestured to Sherlock. “I didn’t have to try my baked goods to know how terrible they were. But I thank you both for playing along for so long.”

“Christ.” Greg dragged his hand down his face. “Bins were overflowing at Scotland Yard.”

“I think I killed a few pigeons.” John’s eyes went wide.

“I love you so much.” You strutted to the kitchen to pour yourself another drink.

Taking precise measurements, you gestured for Molly to come over.

“How’d I do?” You leaned forward.

She took a sip of her daiquiri and smiled at you. “Wonderful. It’s lovely. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for coming.”

“I, I was surprised when you, well, when Sherlock asked.”

“Why? We’re friends.”

“Er, sure. If you want help baking, I, I can—”

“Don’t worry about it, Molly.” You raised your fresh drink. “This will pass the time better than brownies anyway.”

You gave her a wink before sauntering over to Sherlock. Leaning against his chair, you narrowed your eyes at Greg and John.

“What are you two gossiping about?”

“Nothing,” they replied in unison.

You furrowed your brow at Sherlock. But he only widened his eyes, a sparkle of mischief gleaning behind them, before taking a sip of his beer.

“Alright, my beautiful detective.” You stroked a finger down his chest. “I think it’s time we—”

All eyes darted to the front door as it burst open. Mrs. Hudson triumphantly shook a massive pad of paper through the air. She threw her head back and cackled.

“The game is on!” 

You shoved your glass in Sherlock’s hand and dashed to Mrs. Hudson’s side. Relieving the papers from her hand, you hung the board over the couch. She handed you the markers and you gestured to the kitchen.

“Pitcher of dirty martinis ready for you.”

“Oh this is so fun!” She scampered away.

You tossed a marker to Greg and he caught it with wide eyes. Gesturing for everyone to gather closer, you plucked your drink from Sherlock’s hand and took a sip.

“Stand next to me Molly. It’s us against the boys.”

With a small smile, she inched closer to you. You wrapped your arm around her and squeezed her shoulder.

“I’m going to test everyone’s artistic abilities tonight. The game is simple. Opposing team gives your artist a word. The artist has ninety seconds to draw that word and for the other team to guess. Losing team takes a drink. Whoever has the most points at the end wins.”

“And when we win?” John asked.

“When _we_ win, we’ll get to ask each of you a question and you have to answer honestly.”

You and Sherlock exchange a glance.

Greg tilted his head to the side. “Rules?” 

“Of course, no words when you draw. Each team gets one pass if a word doesn’t tickle your fancy. And no abstract concepts or obscure references.”

You narrowed your eyes at Sherlock. 

“Only obscure if you’re too stupid to not to know what it is.”

“If most of us don’t know what it is, dear, it’s obscure.” Mrs. Hudson nodded at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer.

“That’s the spirit.” You winked at him.

Holding out the marker, you scanned the room. “Who’s first?”

John took a step forward. But before he could claim the marker, Molly plucked it from your hand and wiggled her shoulders.

“Alright, boys. Pick your word,” you instructed.

After a few huddled whispers, Greg separated first. But Sherlock pulled him back and stepped toward Molly. He leaned into whisper in her ear, delighting in her bodily reaction to his breath upon her neck.

You narrowed your eyes at them. But Sherlock cleared his throat and took a step back.

Greg and John exchanged a glance. Pursing his lips, John shook his head and Greg gave him a nod in agreement. When you whipped your head around to examine them, they erased their expressions and glanced around the room.

“Ready?” you asked.

Molly gave you a nod. You pulled out your mobile to start the timer.

She started carefully etching onto the blank canvas. Upon a human figure coming clearer into view, you looked at Mrs. Hudson.

“Body?”

“Corpse?”

“Victim.”

Molly smirked and continued to flesh out the image. Then she reeled her arm back and slashed across the throat of the unidentified human.

“Murder.” You narrowed your eyes.

“Death,” Mrs. Hudson chimed in.

“Jugular?”

Molly drew long squiggles spewing from the throat. Mrs. Hudson fiddled with her necklace and glanced at you. 

“Blood?”

“Bleeding out?” Your eyes went wide. “Exsanguination!”

Grinning ear to ear, Molly spun around and took a bow. You stopped the timer and smirked at Sherlock.

“Well played.”

“Not well enough.”

The boys all took a drink. Mrs. Hudson pointed amongst them.

“Which one of you is up next?”

“I got this.” John set his beer on the coffee table. He rubbed his hands together before wielding his weapon. 

Greg and Sherlock were successful in their interpretation of John’s stick figures and squiggles: milkman. Chuckling to himself, he passed the marker to Mrs. Hudson right before you gave him a wink.

However, you and Molly were not as fortunate. When the timer rang, Mrs. Hudson spun around and glared at you.

“How can you two not know what a roach clip is?!”

“A what?” You scrunched your face in confusion.

“Next time you’re over, I’ll have to show you…” Her eyes went wide at Greg. “On the computer. You’ll teach me how?”

“Um, yes.”

“Alright, girls,” Greg snickered. “Drink up.”

You and Mrs. Hudson rolled your eyes as you took a gulp of your martinis. Molly downed a generous sip of her own drink. When you were finished, Sherlock picked up your glass to examine it.

“I’m actually drinking!” You threw your arm to the side.

“Had to confirm myself. Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Tossing your body to his, you wrapped your arm around his back and plucked your glass from his hand. In a single swig, you drained the remaining contents and batted your eyelashes at him.

“How’s your beer?”

“Fine.”

“I’ll have to taste myself.”

Molly cleared her throat. 

“Erm, who’s next?”

Greg waved his hand and took a step forward. Shimmying your shoulders, you set your glass down and untangled yourself from Sherlock.

“Oh! I have something special just for the real detective!”

“The _real.._.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. 

Crossing his arms, John snickered and shook his head.

With the utmost caution, you lowered your lips to graze Greg’s earlobe. When the word floated from your alcohol-soaked breath, he shot his gaze upward and shook his head. The scarlet of his cheeks was undeniable even to the least observant person in the room.

“Pass.”

“Because you don’t know what you’re doing?”

“No! Because, because…”

You pointed to John and Sherlock. “He’s a doctor and he likes to carve up bodies for fun. I think they could both recognize—”

“Pass.” He gave you a stern look. “Next word.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas.” You tossed your hair over your shoulder and retrieved your glass. “Up to you, ladies.”

“Thank God,” Greg muttered.

You sauntered to the kitchen to refill your drink. When you returned to the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson and Molly were still whispering. You rested your head on Sherlock’s shoulder and John leaned over.

“What was the word?”

“Don’t!” Greg barked. “Don’t tell him.”

“You heard the officer. I’m not about to jeopardize my freedom.”

You raised your glass with a sparkle in your eye. Furrowing his brow, John looked at Sherlock.

“What was it?”

“Simple, John. Seems the _real_ detective doesn’t know how to draw the clitoris.”

“Sherlock!” Greg pleaded.

But before he had to endure any more of this conversation, Molly yanked him aside and whispered in his ear.

“Now _that_ , I can do,” Greg replied. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Excellent choice of words.”

John nearly spat out his sip of beer. But he recomposed himself just as Greg started drawing. After twelve seconds of enduring Greg’s artistic ability, Sherlock stomped over and yanked the marker from his hand.

“It’s obviously ‘mind palace’. Let’s get this moving.”

You, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson took a gulp. You raised your eyebrows at him while Molly furrowed her brow.

“Sherlock, it’s not even your turn,” she said.

“Well, now it is.”

“You have no respect for the rules.” You rolled your eyes.

“Neither do you.” He eyed your ankle monitor. “The rules are stupid.”

“If that’s so, I’ve got one for you.” You slammed your glass to the coffee table and whispered in his ear.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “There’s no way they would—”

“Sorry, Holmes. Obscurity is in.”

With growl, Sherlock started scribbling an intricate flow chart. Accurately placed boxes and arrows filled the board. You crossed your arms and raised your eyebrows. 

“Impressive.”

“Obviously.”

But John and Greg could only exchange a curious glance.

“Do we get any better hints?”

Scrunching his face, Sherlock whipped his head around. After computing their expression, he threw his fingertips to his temples.

“Right! I need to think like, like…” He spun back around and added a lock and two keys.

John narrowed his eyes. But after a moment, they lit up with recognition.

“It’s that, that encryption!” He snapped his finger and pointed at you. “What was it called…AES...”

“Encryption?” Greg asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and you gave him a wink.

“Advanced Encryption Standard!” John announced.

The timer rang and you shook your head.

“What? How?” John furrowed his brow.

Sherlock hopped down from the couch and held out the marker. 

“RSA encryption. It’s asymmetrical. Uses public and private keys.”

“It’s an impressive diagram even without any words.” You plucked the marker from his fingers and used it to stroke the side of his face. “The rules are here for your protection. Now drink up.”

The men admitted defeat with a single gulp. You put your hand on your hip and tossed the marker in the air.

“Alright, boys. Show me what you’ve got.”

Sherlock started marching forward. But John put his palm to his chest to stop him.

“No, we’ve already lost once because you tried to show off.”

As John whispered in your ear, you furrowed your brow.

“Well, that’s an abstract concept if I’ve ever heard of one.”

“No, it really isn’t.”

“Maybe this is a better one for Molly?”

“No, it’s for you. Good luck.”

Mouth hanging open, you stared at him as he walked back to start the timer.

“John!” you whined.

“Unless you want to admit defeat?” He shrugged.

With a huff, you spun around and started scribbling across the board. Mrs. Hudson and Molly narrowed their eyes, trying to identify the person you were drawing.

“John.” Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I just gave her the word. It’s not my fault she’s interpreted it as…”

“Jim Moriarty?” Molly furrowed her brow.

You threw your head back and groaned. “John!”

“Fifteen seconds.”

Throwing your palm over your heart, you looked at Molly with pleading eyes.

“This isn’t charades!” John barked. “Get back to drawing.”

You continued to add details as Molly and Mrs. Hudson flung their best guesses to you.

“Criminal?”

“Mastermind?”

“Criminal mastermind?”

“Insanity?”

“Madman?”

“ _Not_ gay!”

The timer rang and you spun around.

“Happy now?”

John beamed at you. “Yes, quite. Drink up.”

You finished off your third drink in two gulps. After throwing the marker to the floor, you stomped to the kitchen.

“Wait, what was the word?” Molly asked.

“Go ahead, John. I’m sure you’ll be so pleased to tell everyone that Jim Moriarty is my—”

“Boyfriend.”

John grinned as Sherlock threw his head back.

“Wait…” Molly pointed between you and Sherlock. “So you’re…”

“I mean, you should know, Molly!” You sharply gestured to her as you walked back to the group. “We apparently have a type!”

“Wh-what type?”

“Isn’t he your ex?”

“Jim! He, he was never my, not my boyfriend.”

Mrs. Hudson glanced at Sherlock. “Is this an open relationship type of thing?”

“Yeah, Sherlock. Do tell.” Greg raised his eyebrows.

“Why are you asking _me_ about her relationship status?” Sherlock snipped.

John threw out his hands. “And that’s as relationally intelligent as they both get.”

“I hate you.” You wrinkled your nose.

“Yeah, we both know that’s not true,” John quipped.

“Yup.” You popped the last syllable. 

After a few more rounds, the drinks continued to flow. For his turn, Sherlock drew a circle and proceeded to stare at John and Greg for the remaining 78 seconds.

“It’s obviously Jupiter!”

“That’s not...no.” John wrinkled his nose and took a drink.

Molly won a point for the girls with her brilliant rendition of the GI tract. You rolled your eyes and scoffed, inciting Greg and John to take an additional gulp along with their obligatory losing sip.

But after John racked up yet another point with a crudely etched stick figure and umbrella for 'the British Government’, he spun around and pointed to you with finger guns.

You, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson took a gulp with a groan. 

“Well…” Greg leaned forward. “I believe we won.”

“Did no—” You reeled your head back. “Oh shit.”

Hangover coming to collect, you tilted your head at the drawing board that was face down on the floor.

“When did that fall down?”

“I took it down.” Greg dragged his hands down his face and sat upright. “He kept, kept staring at me.”

“I should send him a picture.”

But when you unlocked your phone, you saw your last text _was_ a photo addressed to Jim Moriarty: and a blurry one at that.

You glanced at Sherlock.

“I already...and Anderson, how did he get here?”

Molly scratched her head and stared at the floor. 

“You can, er, you can get dressed now.”

“He’s fine.”

“No, both of you.”

Your eyes darted to your bare legs then to Sherlock’s chest. 

“Hey,” you chuckled, “we almost make a whole naked person.”

Rolling his eyes, he yanked on your elbow and led you back to the bedroom. You plopped your mobile in the pocket of his dressing gown and fumbled to clothe your lower half.

“You asked Mrs. Hudson about this property and Molly admitted to eating lunch with a corpse on more than one occasion even though it’s against the rules. And I told you...I told you…”

“About the prison’s most expensive contraband. Yes. Those were not my choice of questions. But they refused to let me decide.” 

Sherlock threw on a shirt. But, dexterity lost to his fingers, he struggled to button it. Defeated, he hung his head back. You stepped forward to take over.

“When did Anderson get here?”

“It was…” He blinked firmly. “Something.”

“Excellent deduction.”

Deeming his shirt buttoned enough (sparring a few at the bottom), Sherlock strutted back to the sitting room. You beat him to John’s chair. He scowled at you. But you gestured for him to sit on the floor in front of you.

You raised your eyebrows when he obliged. With as much caution as you could muster, you started to pick at the tangled threads of his hair.

“Do we need food?” you asked the room.

Pursing her lips, Molly gave you a nod. You retrieved your mobile to place an order, inspiring a whine from Sherlock.

“Give me a sec.”

With an abundance of food on its way, you resumed picking at Sherlock’s curls. But, fiddling with a knot as stubborn as the detective himself, you gritted your teeth as you tried to free it from his hair. 

Sherlock smacked your hand away with a snarl. 

“Sorry!” You threw your hands back.

“You can’t do it right.”

He inched across the rug to sit in front of Molly. Mouth hanging open, you glanced from him to her.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m going for quality.”

“Don’t you touch him.” You glared at her.

He pointed to the back of his head. “Fix this.”

With wide eyes, Molly looked at Greg for answers. He dragged his hands down his face.

“No, John. I can’t. Not another.”

You furrowed your brow at him. “John’s not here.”

“Oh. Uh, right.”

“Speaking of which, we should stay quiet until he’s up.”

Biting her lip, Molly resumed where you left off with Sherlock’s hair. Eye spasming, your nostrils flared as you shot daggers at him with your eyes. But Sherlock only placed his finger to his lips to shush you.

“For John,” he mouthed.

You stomped to the couch and threw yourself next to Greg. Kicking up your feet, you placed them in his lap and reclined on the armest. He threw his hands back. But upon Sherlock’s eye roll, Greg’s muscles relaxed and he leaned back; planting his palms firmly by his side.

Peering at Greg over your phone screen, you narrowed your eyes at him.

“Just what were you saying to John? Just now?”

“Noth...it was nothing.”

You scrutinized his expression. But, room ringing and head spinning, you sent John a text: letting him know you’d bring him food if he wasn’t feeling particularly social that morning.

But your eyes widened when his mobile pinged from the desk. After a swallow, you removed your legs from Greg and went to examine the abandoned device. Furrowing your brow, you sucked in a breath.

Surely it was just a drunken plea for rest from the night before?

But, paranoia getting the better of you, you took cautious steps upstairs. You didn’t even have to knock because the door was wide open. 

Your heart leaped into your throat to see that…

The doctor was _not_ in.

Bed still pristine from the previous day, you rushed into his bathroom to confirm that John was nowhere to be found. Practically tripping over your feet, you scrambled downstairs.

“John’s not here!” you panted.

Greg furrowed his brow. “No, no. I’m sure he’s just...out.”

“Are you in any condition to just go out?”

“Er…”

“Sherlock.” You stared at him with wide eyes. “What happened last night?”

ELEVEN HOURS EARLIER

“Well, now that you boys got to learn one of our many dirty secrets, I think it’s time we play another game. And up the stakes!”

You brought out a tray of empty shot glasses and set it on the coffee table.

“Gather ‘round friends,” you snickered as you poured tequila. “Time for a game of Most Likely.”

“Are we, are you sure?” Molly swallowed.

You threw your arm around her shoulder and smiled. “You’ll do great.”

While Mrs. Hudson sat on the couch, the rest of you deemed the floor worthy of your sorry asses. You raised your shot glass and eyed your crowd, winking at Sherlock from across the coffee table.

“It’s simple really. I start by saying ‘the person most likely to…’” you twirled your free hand through the air. “Then everyone points to the person they think best fits the description. Person with the majority of fingers pointed at them drinks.”

Everyone nodded in confirmation. 

“The person most likely to be found in the morgue…”

All eyes darted to Molly.

“As a victim. On the table. _Dead_.” 

Sherlock’s finger bolted to you. But his eyes went wide at the sight of everyone else pointing at him.

“Pfft, what? No. I could outsmart any, any of my enemies.”

“But your friends?”

“Yes, you too.”

“Everyone here has thought about murdering Sherlock Holmes and exactly how you’d do it, right?”

“I have three distinct possibilities.” John puckered his lips.

Molly grimaced at him. “I helped you fake your death. Wouldn’t be difficult to make it real.” 

“Yes, yes, Molly. Do remind us about how abso-completely necessary you were for the stunt of the, the century,” you snipped.

Greg and John downed their shots.

“What? Guys, Sherlock’s supposed to drink. What are you doing?”

“Thirsty,” John gasped.

“Absolutely parched.” Greg wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Narrowing your eyes at them, you refilled their glasses. 

“Drink up, Holmes.”

Grumbling to himself, Sherlock obliged. He hacked a cough and Greg smacked him on the back.

“Watch you back, Sherlock. Or you’ll end up on that slab.”

“I would kill all of you first.”

“I’m sure you would, dear.” Mrs. Hudson gave him a haunting smile. 

Sherlock reeled his head back then proceeded to stare at his shot glass as you filled it to the brim. 

John smirked. “Mrs. H, you’re next.”

Wiggling in her seat, she patted her knees and looked around the room. 

“Person most likely to make the best cup of tea.”

You pointed to John. But all other fingers were on Mrs. Hudson.

Beaming at everyone, she leaned over to retrieve her shot glass. 

“Why thank you.”

She emptied it in a gulp. Mrs. Hudson smiled at Molly. 

“Your turn.”

“Oh, okay. Erm, person most likely to...get away with murder.”

You, Molly, and Sherlock pointed to, well, Sherlock. While Greg, John, and Mrs. Hudson pointed to you. 

“She didn’t,” Sherlock stammered, “You got arrested!”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “But not convinced. And certainly not for murder.”

“She’s less flashy with it too,” Mrs. Hudson added.

John’s eyes flickered between you and Sherlock. “What do we do in the case of, of a tie?”

Hopping on the coffee table, you sprang to the other side with your shot glass and the bottle in hand. Miscalculating the distance back to the floor, your knee gave out on the descent just enough to wobble your balance. When your feet were firmly planted on the floor, you drank your shot then nodded to Sherlock.

“Do keep up, Holmes.”

He choked down the next shot and you gestured for him to stand. You filled both your glasses then handed the bottle to John. Pointing where Sherlock should stand, you spun him around and pressed your back to his.

“John you’re next.” You hiccuped. “Give us a, a one and we drink if we think it’s us.”

“Oh, yes,” John snickered. 

You glared at him.

“Remember—” 

“—we’re most likely to, to get away with murder,” Sherlock chimed in.

“So if you exploit us, this too terribly—”

“—better check your food first.”

Greg leaned his head back. “Now that is just creepy. Even when they’re drunk...”

“Not even a realer detective could solve the thing.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Well, John. On with it,” you called out.

One hand wrapped around the bottle, John put his elbow on the coffee table and rested his chin on his knuckles.

“Person most likely to, to take the fall for the other.”

You and Sherlock simultaneously downed your shots; only to spin around and scrutinize each other.

“You?” he asked.

“You?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh..”

“Pretend it never happened?”

“Yup.”

John threw his hands in the air. “Well, I tried.” 

Scratching the back of his head, Sherlock plopped next to John. You stumbled back to your seat. Greg caught your fall before you completely slammed into the floorboards.

“Hey,” Sherlock whined. “Don’t you, don’t detective her. I get to, that.”

Molly cleared her throat. “Your, your turn, Sherlock.”

She gently smiled at him. Slowly rotating your head to the side, your glassy eyes blew wide open as you examined her.

“Oh my God, you even smile perfect. Like a perfect smiling doctor with per-erfect bedside manner completely wasted on dead, dead people.”

Greg and John drank their shots. You spun your head around and glared at them.

“Juswhadoyouthink you’re doing?”

“Play, playing the game.” Greg shrugged.

“It is on.” John’s eyes widened.

“Me!” Sherlock shouted. “You’re supposed to be paying your attention to me!”

“What else is new?” Mrs. Hudson chided.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at her. “His secret wife. You _really_ do have a type, don’t you? Just like, like...”

“And with that, I’ll call it a night.” Mrs. Hudson popped to her feet and patted the side of your face. “Best of luck.”

“Secret spouses!” Sherlock called after her. “It’s quite the problem around here!”

“Sherlock!” you whined.

“Person most likely to sleep with Moriarty!” he barked.

Everyone was pointing to you. Even Mrs. Hudson as she walked down the stairs.

“Ew! No way!” you gasped. “I wouldn’t, no, never!”

“It’s so obvious that even an idiot could see it. And if you can’t, what does that making you?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Even an idiot?” You glared at him.

“I said what I did.”

“Well, let’s just take a poll, shall we?”

You threw your hand into Greg’s pocket. He jerked back but you withdrew his mobile and started typing away.

Throwing the phone to your ear, you twirled your hair and giggled. Greg gave John a perplexed look.

“It’s a thing. Her, her thing,” John replied.

“Oh, hi!” you chirped. “Is this, is this is Philip Anderson?”

Sherlock threw his head back and groaned.

“Yes, this is Eve. The, yeah. That one. I have a question for, just for a man like you. Only you can help me, Philip. Please, please tell me you’ll help me?”

Molly leaned over and narrowed her eyes at John.

“Is this..is this what I’m supposed to be doing to...you know.”

“No. God no.”

“Oh, Phil-Philip!” you sang, voice breathier than ever. “Thank you so so much. 221B Baker Street.”

You slid Greg’s phone across the coffee table. He barely caught it before it clattered to the floor. Leaning over, you twirled your hair and batted your eyelashes.

“One idiot on the way.”

“Already here.” Sherlock lowered his gaze to yours. “Rules didn’t say the accusation had to be accurate. Just count the...you know.”

You drank and slammed your empty shot glass to the table. 

“I’ll tell you how it,” you hiccuped, “goes with him, Jim. No, wait. We can just ask…”

You pointed to Molly. With wide eyes, she threw her hands up.

“I didn’t, no, we never! No! He wasn’t even my boyfriend.”

“Neither is he.” You pointed to Sherlock. “But we fu—”

“LESTRADE! I think it’s your turn,” John interrupted.

“Observant as, as always, John.” Sherlock shifted his weight. “And we’re not having sex. We haven’t had sex since—”

“Don’t finish that sent...sentence.” John sharply gestured to Greg. “Lestrade, go.”

“Er, right. Person most likely to, um, to…”

“Go on, illuminate us, detective,” Sherlock mocked.

“I can’t, I can’t stop thinking about, about wildly inappropriate questions. Questions that I _don’t_ want the answers to!”

“Well, if you have brain on the sex, detective, I can certainly help with tha—” You whipped your head around upon a knock on the door. “Just on time!” 

Scrambling to your feet, you fumbled to the door and swung it open. Molly, feeling equally brave and terrified, finished off not just her shot, but yours too. 

You swung the door open and popped out your hip.

“Just the man I was looking for.”

“Um, hi.” Anderson waved to the room.

Molly, John, and Greg grumbled uncomfortable greetings. But Sherlock slammed his eyes closed.

“Get. Out.”

“But she, she invited me.” Anderson pointed to you.

“That I did. Take a seat, dear Philip.” You gestured to the chairs on the other side of the room.

Anderson’s eyes flickered between them. Focusing his gaze on John’s, he stepped forward and took a seat.

“Not in my…” John closed his eyes and set his fist on the coffee table.

“Detective. Sit,” you commanded.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock teetered upright. 

“ _I’m_ the detective.” He wrinkled his nose at Greg before taking his rightful seat.

“Molly, you too,” you hummed. 

“What, what are we doing?” Her eyes darted all around.

“Teaching Greg...something, something about, just get over here!”

Molly rose to her feet. With a single stumble, she made it over to you otherwise completely composed. But you knocked the breath from her lungs when you latched onto her wrist and threw her onto Sherlock’s lap.

“Oh my God, I’m so, so—”

She started to scramble away from him. But you planted your palm to her shoulder and forced her back down.

“We’re doing the real detective a favor. Don’t make me get my, his gun.”

Greg cocked his head to the side. “Thought you didn’t have…”

“For fuck’s sake, Greg, no, Gavin! You’re a, a detective! You should know better.”

“Oh, not you too.” 

Greg buried his face in his hands. Eyelids fluttering in a mixture of frustration and confusion, he nodded in Sherlock’s direction and looked at John.

“How many do we have to do for _that_?”

“At least three.”

John took a massive swig from the bottle and handed it to Greg who followed suit.

Pursing his lips, Sherlock tilted his head to the side. Eyes locked on Molly, he drew in an inhale. 

“Molly. Get. Me. Off.”

"What?!"

"GET OFF ME!"

“Ri-right.” Her eyes flickered downward and back to him. “You should, you should probably move your hands.”

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock’s hands flew from her sides and to the armrests of his chair. He glanced around the room as she peeled her body from his.

“Oh ‘cmon!” you lamented. “I was going to teach you the moves Mrs. H taught me.”

You swiped a fresh bottle from the kitchen and took a swig.

“Mrs. H ta-taught you?” John furrowed his brow.

“Yeah.” You stumbled back to the space between Sherlock and Anderson. “She taught me, exo-exotic dance moves during my recovery the, that time.”

“Is that what you asked me here for?” Anderson asked.

“Fuck yes, whoeveryouare. You were going to get one hell of a lap dance. But no one will play with me.”

You took another gulp and started teetering around. John fumbled to his feet and tried, but failed, to relieve the bottle from your hands.

“Stop it! This, this is mine!” you whined.

“No, you’ve, enough. You’ve enoughed.”

“No!” You took a few shameless gulps before shoving the bottle in Molly’s hands. “I need to, to call my friend.”

Snapping a photo of your rendition of Jim, you texted him the image. The reply was instant with a phone call.

“Paint me like your French girls?”

“Jim, Jim, Jimoooothy!”

“Riley? Are you having fun without me?”

“No, I’m having no fun whatsoever! Everyone here is so, so boring.”

“That will happen. Come with me and I’m sure I can remedy the issue.”

You put your hand over the receiver and whispered. Well, you thought it was whispering.

“But I haaaave, Jim. In my dreams.”

John reached for your phone. But you swatted his hand away. 

“You’re cute, but I’m not interested.” You wrinkled your nose at him.

John dragged his hand down his face. “Oh God.” 

Giving up on you, he plopped down next to Greg and continued to finish off the nearly empty bottle.

“Was that hamster number two?” Jim asked.

“Mmm, no. I’m a, I’m a Watson.”

By now, Anderson was nursing your fresh bottle of tequila; quite satisfied with his insider’s look at the happenings at 221B Baker Street.

“But JIM!” You spun around. “I have to tell you about my dream. You were there. And I was there. And, and. And your, your TONGUE!”

Sherlock yanked the phone from your hand and ended the call. You unceremoniously slammed into his chest and stumbled backward.

“Hey! I was...with that!”

You clawed at the air but he tossed your mobile to Greg. The detective inspector only realized there was something to catch when the device slammed into the floor.

“You’re done, doneing.” Sherlock eyed you.

“You, you are very pretty. But I, I can’t go home with you. My boyfriend, he, well, yeah.”

“I think I can handle, handled Moriarty.”

“He wishes,” you snickered. “But he’s not my boyfriend. Mine is smarter.”

You widened your eyes at him. Holding onto your shoulders, Sherlock reeled his head back and stared at you.

“You have, you have a secret boyfriend?”

“He’s smarter than youuuu.”

“How did, how did I miss this? Miss this _AGAIN_?”

“I hear it’s becoming a problem on the Baker’s Streets. My boyfriend, the detective, he could solve the...the thing.”

“Is it...is it…” Sherlock whipped his head around to glare at Greg.

Elbow on the coffee table and head sliding down his hand, Greg’s eyelids started to flutter closed. Sherlock stomped over to him, leaving you teetering back and forth and giggling to yourself. 

“GILES!” He swung a useless punch through the air. 

“I’m here!” Greg jolted awake just in time to break Sherlock’s fall.

John scrambled to his feet and yanked Sherlock off of him.

“Sherlock! You moron!” He spun the detective around and smacked him across the face. “She’s talking about _you_!”

“Who?”

“I knew, I knew this would be a problem. This is exactly why….why….” John furrowed his brow and released Sherlock from his grasp. “This is why I have to go.”

John grabbed his jacket and stumbled out of the flat. You tilted your head to the side.

“Where did he run off to?” You flinched, realizing that Molly was the only thing keeping you upright. “Where did you coming from?”

“You’re really terrible, you know. What does he even see in you?”

“I ask myself that every day.”

“Why are so, so awful to me?”

“I don’t, who are…” You narrowed your eyes at her. “You’re really pretty. But mean.”

“I’m sor—no, no, I’m not.”

“Good, if you weren’t mean, you’d be too, too perfect. The pretty, the pretty nice ones I loved always ended up, they died.”

Molly narrowed her eyes as she tried to read your face. But she sucked in a breath when Sherlock traced his hand across her shoulder.

“Molly.” 

Her eyes darted between you and Sherlock before withdrawing from you. He helped you find your balance. You tried to fling yourself from his arms, pointing to Anderson.

“But I have to dan—”

Sherlock threw his hand over your mouth and dragged you to the bedroom.

Sobering to reality, you stared at Molly as she tended to Sherlock’s hair.

“I know where John went.”

Sherlock glanced at you. Eyes locked on yours, he gave you a nod.

You plopped yourself in John’s chair and focused your gaze on Molly.

“Molly, I am so sorry.”

“S’fine.” She remained entranced by Sherlock’s curls.

“No, it’s not. I’m, I’m so sorry.”

“Maybe you’ll tell me someday.”

Staring at her, you rose to your feet and swallowed. After a breath, you looked away and retreated to the stairwell. Sitting at the base of the stairs with the door wide open, you wrapped your arms around your knees as they bounced up and down.

Shielding his eyes, John came traipsing down the street an immeasurable amount of time later. When he saw you, you shot up to your feet; instantly regretting the movement and grabbing the banister for balance.

“I know.” He shook his head. “I should have—”

You wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his neck.

“Did she say it back?”

He sighed and nodded into you. “Yeah, yeah she did.”

Holding onto his shoulders, you withdrew and smiled at him.

“Good. She’d have to be crazy not to love you, John Watson.”

“I love you too.”

“Food is on its way.”

“Oh right, I think I saw a guy dragging three body bag’s worth of takeaway down the pavement.”

“I didn’t order that much.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” you snickered. “As long as you help him carry it. Since I can’t go out there.”

He patted you on the back and led you back upstairs.

Leaving all your unanswered questions, simply, unanswered.

After all, you knew the important facts.


	3. December: The Twelve Days of Prankmas

Swinging the door to the refrigerator open, Sherlock scratched the back of his head. He snatched his bag of thumbs from the inner compartment. But he furrowed his brow upon closer examination. 

Swimming inside the blood of the plastic bag was not human digits: but stress balls.

His pupils blew wide open as he confirmed his nagging hypothesis.

The liver in the freezer: now a frozen clump of stress balls.

The lung at the back corner, the coolest part of the fridge: now a stress ball.

The eyeballs sitting in a saucepan on the hob: one, two, three stress balls bobbing in the solution from the night before.

He dashed to the bedroom and pounced on you.

“Where are they?”

“Good morning to you too,” you grumbled in reply.

You tried to enjoy a stretch. But Sherlock’s gaze was relentless as he lowered his face to yours.

“Where. Are. My. Body. Parts.”

You glanced him up and down.

“Um…”

“Stop LYING to me!”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

You smacked him to get off you and he stumbled backward. Rising to your feet, you threw on one of his dressing gowns and yawned your way to the kitchen.

He scrutinized your every movement.

You prepared the kettle to make coffee. Hair on the back of your neck pricking, you spun around to see Sherlock’s nose a breath away from yours. You sucked in an inhale.

“You are just, no. It’s too early for this.” 

You tried to push him aside. But Sherlock yanked the saucepan from the hob to shove it in your face. The liquid solution sloshed out, sending at least 75mL toward your ankle monitor.

You jerked back and smacked into the counter.

“Sherlock!”

“What did you do with them?!”

You peered at the bobbing stress balls in his unknown (and hopefully harmless) solution. Raising your eyebrows, you chuckled to yourself.

“Now that’s, that’s a good one.”

“It wasn’t…”

You raised your hands in defense. 

“Sorry, Holmes. I think the doctor has come to collect.”

“But I, that was just, SCIENCE. He compromised the integrity of ALL my experiments.”

Preparing your coffee, you shrugged.

“You’re stuttering to the wrong person.”

“I am NOT stuttering!”

“And I’m not touching this with a ten-foot pole.”

“JOHN!”

Sherlock stomped out of the kitchen. You shook your head as you doused your coffee grounds in steaming water.

This would be a good Christmas. Now that you finally got to celebrate.

Later that day, Sherlock returned from Barts muttering a slew of insults under his breath. He unceremoniously shoved organs in their dedicated locations inside the refrigerator.

In the sitting room, you and John unpacked the new television.

“I can’t believe neither of you could fix the remote.” You sliced into the box and tore it open.

“ _ He _ is the one who changed it. It’s his fault that he can’t change it back.”

Sherlock spun around from the refrigerator and glared at the back of John’s head. 

“Perhaps you’re not as clever as you think,” John chided.

“John!” You shot him a stern look. 

“You wouldn’t even look at it.”

“Because I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

“Really? I thought you would have leaped at the opportunity to torment him.”

Sherlock slammed the door closed, flourishing the action with a far-from-subtle huff. 

“You are  _ not _ recruiting her, John!”

He marched into the sitting room as you held onto the television. John dragged the box over it and you started to rip apart the plastic.

“I was merely saying my thoughts on the matter.” John raised his eyebrows.

“Not a single person is interested in what happens in your head,” Sherlock replied.

“Not true. I have an entire following.”

“Of  _ my _ fans. No one even knows who John Watson is.”

“No one knows?” John put his hands on his hips. “I can prove it.”

He stomped to his laptop and threw the machine open. Pulling up his blog, John’s pupils blew wide open at the latest posts...ones he certainly didn’t publish.

Observing the doctor, Sherlock snickered to himself. You furrowed your brow and glanced at him.

“Just what did you do?”

“I apologize,” Sherlock murmured. “Apparently people will know who John Watson is. At least after today.”

You scurried over to peer at the screen over John’s shoulder. Eyes glued to the compromising evidence, John’s face paled as he scrolled through a seemingly endless stream of photos.

There was a set from the first night you went drinking together. The theme seemed to be his face plastered to varying surfaces; including the table in the club and the window of the taxi cab. 

Next up was a photo of John passed out in his bed. Sherlock was reclined next to him with a shameless grin stamped across his face. Beneath the image was an entire article on how to determine the best ways to poison sloppy eaters.

You failed to stifle a laugh. John whipped his head around to glare at you.

“This.” He pointed to the screen. “This is not funny.”

“I mean, it’s kind of—”

“I thought you were staying out of this?”

“I am. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it though.”

With a grunt, John returned his focus to the laptop. He started typing away.

“Joke’s on you, Sherlock. Because I can just…”

But he puffed out his cheeks when he couldn’t log in to the backend of his website.

Sitting in his chair, Sherlock plucked at the strings of his violin.

“Passwords.” He shook his head. “Never as secure as people might think they are.”

John marched over to him. He lunged for Sherlock’s violin. But the detective bolted to his feet and held it out of reach.

“Give me back my blog.” John glared at him.

“Why? It’s the most popular it’s been since, well, ever. I thought you wanted the attention?”

“Sherlock!”

But Sherlock only tilted his head to the side and strode to his room. 

If only John knew he didn’t actually change the password. But, instead, completed a text replacement on all devices in the flat. Anytime the doctor entered his password, it was replaced with your measurements.

If he was actually clever enough, John would figure it out. So frankly, it was his own fault he was in this predicament.

John put his hands on his hips and stared at you.

“Help me break back into it.”

You raised your hands in defense.

“Again, not touching this.”

You backed away to claim your usual spot on the couch. John dragged his hands down his face and started a futile search for more information on website security.

A few days later, Sherlock’s eyes bolted open to the feeling of your body pressed against his. In his chair, he sucked in a breath as you nipped his neck.

“John’s going to be out for a bit,” you breathed onto his skin as you straddled his lap.

“Finally.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You boys have had quite a bit of fun these past few days.”

He leaned his head back to grant you more access. 

“It’s not, this isn’t trivial.” 

Sherlock slammed his eyes closed as you decorated his neck with a pattern of loving kisses and bites. You nipped his earlobe and threw your fingers into his hair.

“He did manage to rearrange the strings on your violin.”

“Offensive.”

“And what you did to his pomade?”

“A necessary first step in retaliation. The chemistry is quite simple. Only needed—”

“His hand was stuck to his scalp for three hours.”

Sherlock smirked. Raking your fingers down his chest, you raised your eyebrows.

“I thought you liked games, my brilliant detective.”

“This isn’t a—” He grunted as you pressed your pelvis into him. “—game.”

“Oh, no. This is very serious business,” you cooed.

Wrapping your hand around the side of his face, you stole his breath with a kiss. Sherlock welcomed your touch. But just as he was about to dip his tongue into your mouth, you placed a palm to his chest and withdrew.

You pouted your lip and shifted your weight on his lap.

“Please, Detective Holmes. You have to take my case.”

Puffing out your chest, you stroked a finger down his sternum. Sherlock furrowed his brow in reply.

“Since when do you ever want my help? And what ca—”

You pressed your finger to his mouth and batted your eyelashes. You leaned in to kiss him, pulling away just enough to murmur onto his lips.

“Because you’re the world's smartest detective. The only one competent enough to help me.”

“You state facts like they’re impressive,” he grumbled as you continued to kiss him.

With wide eyes, you pulled away and stared at him. You hooked your finger just underneath his collar and traced along his skin.

“No one believes I’m innocent,” you mewled.

“Well, that’s not surprising.”

You threw your head back.

“Sherlock.”

“You’re not good at this.”

But you whipped your head around at an indistinguishable voice at the door.

“John? Is that you?” you called out.

“Mrs. Hudson was jealous of the new television. She’s experimenting with her own.”

“That’s awfully loud, even for her.”

“You were saying?”

“Hm?”

“About my...competence?”

You snickered. “So it was doing something for you?”

“Merely a relief to hear you utter the truth for once.”

You leaned in to graze your lips across his cheek. 

“Sherlock Holmes is the most intelligent…” 

Kiss. 

“...clever...”

Other cheek.

“Your word choice is already lacking.”

“Sherlock!”

You jerked back and threw out your arms.

“And, in an unsurprising turn of events, the male specimen has once again offended his mate,” the curious voice chimed in.

“Okay, that was definitely not Jo—”

You started to retract yourself from Sherlock’s body. But he planted his palm to your thigh, groaning as he leaned his head back.

“The metropolitan otter,” your mysterious narrator continued, “has little to no chance of mating. However, when fortunate enough to find a suitable partner, they do pair for life. This particular male specimen managed to find a female whose beauty far exceeds his own.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Little to no chance...JOHN!”

The front door swung open and John buckled over in a fit of laughter. He shook hands with the older gentleman next to him and patted his knuckles.

“Thanks, Dave.”

“Anytime, John. Love the blog. The new additions were particularly thrilling.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” John whined.

Your narrator chuckled himself out of your flat.

“John,” you pouted, climbing out of Sherlock’s lap. “I was going to—”

“Yeah, I know. I’m leaving now. For real.” John gave you a wave. “I did call you the pretty one though.”

“Tell that to his hoard of fans.”

John opened his mouth to reply. But he snapped his jaw closed and glanced at Sherlock.

“And I’ll leave  _ that one _ to you,” he said before dashing out for the rest of the day.

Rolling your eyes, you started to make your way to the kitchen. But Sherlock latched onto your wrist and yanked you back into his lap.

“Not really in the mood,” you groaned.

“You are truly manipulative and conniving.”

“Oh God, you’re even worse than I am.”

“I’m not, not trying that again.” He blinked firmly and shook his head.

You opened your mouth to thank him. But before the words escaped your lips, Sherlock sprang to his feet. He held onto your waist, inspiring you to wrap your arms around his neck and legs across his hips.

With a sprinkle of grunts, he carried you to the bedroom and tossed you on the mattress. Sherlock leaped over you, resting his palms on either side of your face.

“He said we mate for life. Who am I to disappoint David Attenborough?”

“Wait, that was Dav—“

He stopped your sentence with a kiss, eventually pulling away to murmur lowly.

“Or, worse, you.”

Lips still connected with his, you smirked.

“You’re getting better at this.”

Sherlock leaned back to kiss you. But before you could enjoy the feeling of his lips on yours, he tilted his head upward and raised his eyebrows at you.

“Now, if you could just help me get John by—“

“Oh, not you too!”

You shoved him off of you and sprang to your feet.

“I would just need—” he stammered.

You slammed the bathroom door shut, leaving Sherlock uncomfortably shifting his weight.

Two nights later, you woke up to the cacophonous sound of glass shattering and shouting from upstairs. Gun in hand, you bolted upright. But Sherlock started chuckling next to you.

“SHERLOCK!” John roared from upstairs.

You glared at the detective. He dragged his hands over his face as his shoulders shook with glee.

“That mirror,” he snickered. 

Sherlock propped himself partially upright.

“Quite a string of BAD LUCK you’ll have!” he bellowed toward the ceiling.

He glanced you up and down and smirked. With a groan, you threw yourself back to the mattress and set your gun aside.

Taking his invitation, Sherlock leaned over and traced his hand along your waist. You narrowed your eyes and glared at him.

“I should check on John.”

He buried his nose in your hair and nipped your earlobe.

“He’ll recover...eventually.”

With a gentle sigh, you leaned back into him on instinct. He continued to trail his hands down your body. Sherlock murmured into your hair.

“Did you really have a dream with—”

“We’re not having this conversation at two in the morning.”

But Sherlock sucked in a breath at the thunderous sound of John charging downstairs. John threw open the bedroom door and turned on the light. 

Sherlock ducked behind you for cover as you leaned upright. Squinting, you barely shielded yourself with a sheet as you held your other hand up for cover from the blinding light.

“John!” you protested. “How’s your, your hand?”

“A clown? Why did it have to be a clown?” John lamented.

“Because it was effective.” Sherlock peered over your shoulder.

Eyes adjusting, you tried to examine John’s hand from the doorway.

“Lemme help you with that.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock threw himself back to the pillow with a gratuitous groan. You nodded to the door.

“John, get out.”

“I thought you were—”

“I’m  _ naked. _ I’ll meet you out there when I’m...clothes, stuff.”

“Right.”

Tossing on a dressing gown, you met John on the couch. Antiseptic, tweezers, and bandages regularly on hand, you blinked a few times as you examined his injuries.

“You two need to stop this,” you grumbled.

“It’s just superficial.” He shrugged.

You started to pluck a few remaining shards from his skin.

“This will escalate until one or both of you gets seriously injured.”

“Then help me.”

“No, I don’t condone this.” Your eyes bolted to him. “Oh my god, is this how you feel?”

John cleared his throat. “Perhaps.”

You shook your head and proceeded to cleanse the minor cuts on John’s hand. 

He drew in a breath. “Janine. Her name is Janine.”

“No, it’s not.” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“No, but that  _ is _ the type of high-quality information I am willing to exchange for your assistance.”

You set the cotton ball aside, giving him a deadpan expression.

“You’re willing to sell out the identity of your secret girlfriend to prank Sherlock Holmes?”

“I  _ really _ want to poison him!”

Shaking your head, you applied a few bandages to shield his open wounds from the harshness of 221B.

“I told you both from the beginning, I’m not taking sides.”

John rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

When your work was complete, you popped to your feet and crossed your arms. John examined your handiwork.

“Well done,” he praised.

“Learned from the best.”

“From the best brother you could have  _ ever _ asked for?”

“Poison him yourself.”

You dragged your feet back to the bedroom. Flopping next to Sherlock, you smacked his chest with the back of your hand.

“You two, this, stop. Needs to stop.”

He inched closer to you and breathed onto your neck, commanding your hair to stand on end.

“I don’t need your help.”

You closed your eyes and whimpered, “No.”

Biting his lip, Sherlock traced shapes along your clothed shoulder. The tip of his finger grazed your skin. You leaned your head to the side, granting him access to kiss your neck.

“But I admit that having an assistant would make this—”

“Assistant?” You looked at him with wide eyes.

“I need an assistant. Normally it’s, well, anyone but you. Because you’re far from helpful.”

“Just let me sleep.”

“I could. But I could also…”

His fingers inched along your abdomen. You bolted upright and glared at him.

“Sherlock Holmes. Are you trying to prostitute yourself to me for a prank war?”

“Only if it’s working.”

“Good night.”

“Morning.”

You rolled onto your side in a flurry of grumbles and one shameless elbow to his stomach. Eventually, you allowed him to wrap one arm around your waist.

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear.

“Oh, you asshole. You really want to make him think he won a spot on a makeover show?”

“I was going to frame him for..no, that works also. Will you—”

“Sherlock.” You leaned back and raised your eyebrows at him. “Go the fuck to sleep. And stop this. Both of you.”

But God took no mercy on you. 

Three days later, John smacked the handle on the silverware drawer with a wooden spoon. Clenching his teeth, he hooked the tip of the spoon under the handle and tugged with the gentlest pressure to open the drawer.

Exiting the bedroom, you furrowed your brow at him.

“I just need a fork,” his voice cracked.

“Oh for God’s sake.”

You yanked on the handle. But your shoulder tensed when it refused to open more than seven centimeters. You gave the handle another shake, but it refused to yield.

Eyes flickering to the other cabinets, you rattled the handles on all the cupboards. But none of the doors would open more than a mocking crack.

You threw your head back.

“Sherlock!” you whined.

Upturning the collar of his coat, Sherlock strode into the kitchen. He pecked you on the cheek. You reeled your head back, placing your fingertips where his lips grazed your skin.

Putting on his gloves, Sherlock spun around and raised his eyebrows at you and John.

“Off to Scotland Yard. Lestrade can’t seem to figure out, well…” He eyed John. “You wouldn’t understand.”

John rolled his eyes. Your hand slowly retracted from your face. Furrowing your brow, you pointed to your cheek.

“What was that?”

“Display of domestic affection.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Was it...not good?”

You shook the cabinet handle and whimpered. The necessary materials for your morning salvation were woefully out of reach.

“Sherlock. Coffee.”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

He spun back around and marched out the door.

You threw back your head and groaned. But before you could eviscerate John with your gaze, your eyes widened to realize the doctor was nowhere in sight.

Two hundred and eleven minutes later, Sherlock stormed into the flat.

“JOHN!” he bellowed as a frigid breeze blew through the open doors.

You dashed into the sitting room and pointed to the doorway.

“Sherlock! It’s freezing out. Close the damn doors.”

But he was already stomping up to John’s room. You furrowed your brow at his lopsided gait. Hand over his stomach, Sherlock grunted his way up the stairs with you on the tail of his coat.

He threw open the door to John’s room and stared at him. If looks could kill, the doctor would be dead in .28 seconds.

“It’s been almost FOUR HOURS,” Sherlock barked.

Reclined on his bed, John threw the paper to his lap and tilted his head to the side. 

“Since you graced us with your absence from the flat? Yes. Might want to resume that.”

“What did you give me?” His nostrils flared.

“I’d call it advice. Great advice as a matter of fact.”

Eyes flickering between the two of them, you placed your hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock, are you—”

He spun around and threw open his coat.

“Oh my God!” you shrieked, covering your mouth with your hand. 

“I’m up here.” He pursed his lips with a huff.

Sherlock buttoned his coat, shielding your eyes from the more than generous bulge that graced his trousers. Pupils blown wide open, you stared at John.

“We, I mean, you have to get him to a hospital!”

John puffed out his cheeks and looked to the side. After a breath, he pointed a finger at Sherlock and puckered his lips.

“You took  _ that _ before going to see Lestrade? Is this a thing? Amongst you three?”

“John!” you screamed.

“They say if it’s  _ over _ four hours, then we should be concerned. But we’re not there quite yet. So no cause for alarm.”

He resumed reading the paper.

Sherlock stomped out of John’s room. You helped him hobble down the stairs, far too many active limbs than he was used to.

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” he seethed through gritted teeth.

In the sitting room, he threw his back to the couch. You crossed your arms and looked at him with wide eyes.

“Maybe I should call Greg.”

“DON’T.” He glared at you.

“Well, I quite like your anatomy. And would appreciate it staying intact.” 

Your mobile pinged. With a swallow, you checked your latest text from John.

_ Give it twenty minutes. _

You finally released a breath and grimaced at Sherlock.

“Anything I can do for you?”

But he only growled in reply. Clicking your tongue, you retreated to the bedroom. 

The next day, you stood in front of Sherlock and John in their respective chairs. Crossing your arms, you leaned into one hip and glared at them.

“This has to stop. You are both  _ done _ .”

Sherlock drew in a breath and glanced to the side. John twiddled his thumbs and stared at the floor.

“You two are going to maim or kill each other. Call a truce and we can all stop being afraid to open doors or turn off the lights.”

Sherlock snickered. 

“The pirana in the toilet was  _ not _ funny!” John shouted.

“What? Don’t like your appendages under threat of teeth?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

Shaking a finger, John leaned forward. But you stepped between them and shot them with looks that could kill.

“My anxiety has been through the roof the past two weeks. And I get surprise murder sexts from Jim on the regular. They’re awful but nothing compared to you two.”

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock snapped his gaze to you.

“You’re  _ done _ ,” you commanded.

Eyes locked with his, you sucked in a breath and leaned back.

“Call it a truce, boys.”

Their grumbles resembled a semblance of verbal white flags. Figuring this was the best you’d get from them, you threw out your hands and strutted to the bedroom. 

The moment the door was closed, Sherlock leaned forward and jabbed a finger in John’s face.

“Be careful what you eat.”

“Don’t get too  _ excited _ now.”

“I have the entire British government at my disposal.”

“And I have the medical knowledge to make your body do  _ anything _ I want it to.”

John slammed his eyes closed.

“Don’t, no. Not…” He groaned from the back of his throat.

Sherlock rose to his feet. “Very well, Doctor Watson. The game is on.”

That afternoon, Sherlock and John returned from a crime scene to find two white boxes with scarlet sashes waiting for them on the desk. On a sticky note in the middle was a message from you.

_ Making Christmas cookies with Mrs. H. Be back later xo, E _

Sherlock smirked at the red kiss mark on his box. But he furrowed his brow to see you decorated the white tissue paper of John’s gift with the same marking.

“I, I feel badly,” John muttered.

“Remorse won’t save you, John.” Sherlock raised the box to examine it more closely.

“Not about you. For  _ her. _ ” John set his box on the table. “I tried to keep her uninvolved because of her, you know. I didn’t want her shooting anyone in the middle of the night. But maybe we have taken things too far.”

Sherlock swiped John’s box and narrowed his eyes at it.

“Sherlock, are you even listening to me?”

The detective raised the box to his ear. He was about to give it a good shake, but the television flickered on to reveal the pleased face of Jim Moriarty.

“Hi.” Jim shrugged.

Sherlock’s pupils blew wide open as he glanced at the boxes. Beneath the tissue paper was the scarlet glow of a countdown.

00:05

00:04

00:03

John and Sherlock stared at each other with wide eyes.

Downstairs, you furiously whisked a bowl of eggs, vanilla, and brown sugar together.

“They are children!” you whined. “It was funny at first but then I got worried.”

You slammed the bowl on the table and dragged over the bowl of the dry mixture. Just as you were about to pour the liquids into the flour, Mrs. Hudson swiped the bowl from your hands.

“One more thing I need to add.” She smiled at you.

You rolled your eyes and scratched the back of your head. 

“Honestly, they remind me of some other guys I knew back in the States.”

While you were picking at your nails, Mrs. Hudson glanced over her shoulder. When she returned to the table, she handed you a  _ nearly _ identical bowl that she salvaged from the sink.

You tossed the  _ correct _ liquids into the dry mixture. Sucking in a breath, you started to assault the forming batter with a wooden spoon. 

“I didn’t know you have friends back in America.” Mrs. Hudson stared at your lumpy mixture.

“I did. I don’t think, they’re...they’re not my friends anymore.”

“Falling out?”

“Pretty sure they think I’m dead.”

You slid the bowl over to her. Mrs. Hudson started the arduous process of salvaging your cookie dough. 

Crossing your arms, you slumped back in your seat. 

“Well, hopefully this—”

Mrs. Hudson jerked back at the sight of Sherlock and John cascading to the pavement from her window. At least her bins were out of the way this time.

Upon the sound of two graceless thuds, you threw open her window. You crossed your arms and leaned over the window sill. The paparazzi clicked their cameras and chattered about the sight before them.

Detective Sherlock Holmes and his blogger, potential bachelor, John Watson face down on a massive landing pad. Admittedly, a slightly firmer than necessary landing pad.

With a groan, John leaned his head to the side to look at Sherlock.

“No bomb?”

“No,” Sherlock grumbled into the landing pad.

“The windows?”

“Sugar glass.” He finally tilted his head to look at John.

Hair caught the breeze, you shook your head at them. “Are we done?”

“Yes,” they moaned in unison.

“Good. Come inside. The cookies I ordered from a local bakery should be here any moment.”

You slammed the window shut.

“Oh thank goodness.” Mrs. Hudson surveyed the mess before her.

“I know...I can’t bake.”

“You are hopeless.”

Slumping in your seat, you snickered at her until your laughs faded to an uncomfortable silence. Staring at your bowl of doomed cookie dough, you softly shook your head.

“You could give them a call,” Mrs. Hudson interrupted your aching heart.

“Hm?”

“The American boys.”

“Oh, maybe.”

“They’d be happy to know you’re not dead.”

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think it always goes that way.” Your eyes finally flickered to her. “But I’ll think about it.”

That evening, you leaned on the armrest of Sherlock’s chair and raised a glass of eggnog.

“To the twelve days of Prankmas. May they never happen again.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a curt nod before taking a sip.

“You should stick with drinks,” John said.

“I know. I’ll leave the baking to pretty much anyone but me.”

Sherlock inched over in his chair. His eyes flickered from the seat to you. 

Biting your lip, you examined his expression. But after a swallow, you climbed in and sat on the top of the back of his chair. You scratched his head and he eyed your ankle monitor that rested next to his thigh.

You leaned forward and gulped.

“Now, we’ve got everyone coming over tomorrow night for Christmas. I expect everyone to be on their best behavior. And by everyone, I mean me. I’m not going to drink as much as last time.”

“Good call.” John glanced at you.

“Yeah,” you snickered. “I normally don’t because if I drink too much, I reach this truth serum level drunk where you can ask me anything and I can’t lie.”

Sherlock snapped his gaze to you. You took a sip of eggnog and shrugged.

“Too bad you two were too wasted to take advantage of that.”

“I don’t think I was even here.” John furrowed his brow.

“Right, because you’re the one with the not-so-secret girlfriend.”

John rolled his eyes. “How long have you two known?”

“Two months,” you replied. 

“Six months,” Sherlock said.

“Six months?!” You stared at him with wide eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Am I supposed to do that?” 

Fingertips pressed together, he glanced at you. You raised your eyebrows at the genuine curiosity in his eyes. But the look was quickly buried as he shifted in his seat.

“I assumed John’s love life would be quite uninteresting to anyone. Even to his girlfriend.”

“Sherlock.” John slammed his eyes closed and shook his head. “You cock. Oh, wait.”

“We’re never talking about that again.” Sherlock clenched his jaw.

“I don’t know.” John shrugged. “Lestrade said you were acting awfully strange that day.”

“Oh, don’t torment the man any more than you have, John.” 

You stroked Sherlock’s hair, smiling as the muscles in his back relaxed. Slapping his knees, John rose to his feet.

“Well, I’m going to bed considering I haven’t gotten a full night’s rest in the past two weeks.”

“G’night, John.”

“Night.” He gave you a wave before retreating upstairs. 

You sprang to your feet and spun around, raising your eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Sleep? I know you must be tired too.”

Setting his practically untouched glass aside, Sherlock rose to his feet. He plucked your drink from your hand and let it rest next to his. 

Taking a step forward, Sherlock wrapped his hands around the side of your face and looked into your eyes.

“I love you,” he said.

You tilted your head to the side. 

“And I love you. What is going on with you?”

He withdrew his hands and rubbed them together. With a sigh, he gestured to the bedroom. 

“Let’s, yes, um...sleep.”

“Okay.” You furrowed your brow.

As Sherlock walked behind you, he ruffled his hair.

This was all quite new. But so far, he didn’t seem to be doing...not good?

He’d learn. 

One day.

As long as it was with you.


	4. January: Another Lap Around the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut. This chapter is just for smut.

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock stomped into the bedroom and threw himself on the mattress. It bobbed up and down in reply.

“What is so spectacular about living for another year?”

You set your earrings on the nightstand. Staring at the ceiling, Sherlock continued.

“Even the most simplistic organisms are designed for survival. It’s the fundamental principle of life.”

With a smirk across your face, you kicked off your heels and let down your hair.

“We just celebrated  _ you _ . I thought you would be delighted to have an entire day dedicated to yourself. Although it’s not much different than the rest, I suppose.”

Sherlock scowled and shook his head.

“And then there’s the cake. Why so much cake? How is it beneficial to spike your offspring on a sugar high, force them to sit still through a magic show—trite deception at that—then send them on their way in absolute comatose...no, that last part I understand.”

“I take it you didn’t get many invitations to birthday parties as a child?”

You shimmied out of your dress and snickered.

“They  _ forced me _ to go. It was ignominious.”

You unhooked your bra and tossed it aside. “No one forced you to eat anything today.”

“Social obligation.”

“Since when have you cared about—”

“Just as torturous as the unnecessary, ceremonious singing. Group of people with pedestrian musical talent, at best, trying to serenade me as a display of affection? If anything, it inspires me to  _ not _ make another lap around the sun.”

After freeing yourself of all clothing, you pounced on the bed and grinned at him.

“So you did learn something new this year?”

Sherlock tilted his head up just enough to glare at you. Rolling his eyes, he looked to the side and huffed. You leaned in to decorate his jawline with a sequence of kisses.

“I’m just happy that I got to leave under Greg’s supervision,” you murmured.

“Yes, he was quite eager to  _ supervise _ you.”

“But please Detective, don’t let me interrupt. Do continue.”

“Why do people bother giving gifts if they’re so clearly incompetent at it? How is a ring of silicone supposed to be used as a weapon?”

You snickered at the thought of Greg’s offering as you continued your work down his neck. Your fingers deftly released the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock adjusted his shoulders so you could free his chest of the mulberry fabric.

He withdrew his arms from the sleeves and arched his back. You tossed his shirt aside. 

“You certainly don’t need them.” You smirked.

“Why would I? They’re utterly useless for self defense.”

Raking your fingers down his chest, you continued your celebration of the detective. You adorned his skin with a devoted constellation of kisses, nips, and licks. Each press of your lips to his skin incited a flutter of your own heart.

“I don’t even like German chocolate,” he whined.

You darted back upward. Leaning down, you pressed your lips to his and traced the outside of his tongue with yours. You could feel his muscles tense as you leaned your body against his.

“Yes, a waste of your good tastebuds.” You licked your lips.

“At least you didn’t bake. That was a gift.”

“Truly.” 

You started the taxing process of unbuttoning his trousers. Freeing his length with a few doting strokes, you bespeckled his clavicle with a winding pattern of kisses. You commenced your descent down his body as he groaned.

“If anyone wanted to—” He hissed an inhale. “—make this day remarkable by any measure, it would include—”

“Murder?” You peered at him over his abdomen.

He furrowed his brow. “Not by you.”

You blessed him with a soft chuckle. Upon feeling the breath from your lips, Sherlock’s body shuddered on command.

It took you six equidistant kisses to find your lips at the tip of his length. His body was eager for your attention. 

Shameless grin across your face, you bit your lip before flashing him a sparkle of mischief in your eyes. You swirled your tongue across the head, flourishing the action with a teasing lick across his slit. Clenching the sheets, Sherlock twitched in reply. 

But, denying physical yearning, he blinked rapidly and bolted his head upward. You watched his chest rapidly rise and fall as he narrowed his eyes at you.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I think you can figure—”

“No.” 

“I’ve healed fine. Fine-ish. I can handle—”

“Experimented with anyone else?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“The answer is no.”

Sucking in a breath, you rose upright on your knees. You bit your lip as you glanced to the side before returning your gaze to him.

“There are other ways I can enjoy you without shoving you down my throat.”

“And I’m not taking on the risk of you disappearing. Especially not for an act as trivial as—”

“You think quite highly of yourself if you think one blowjob will traumatize me.”

But you held your breath as you stared at him. After a sharp exhale, you lowered yourself back to Sherlock; protecting him with a loving palm placed on either side of his head.

He traced the side of your face with the edge of his thumb. Truthfully, and that was becoming more common between the two of you, he didn’t mistrust your abilities. Moreso, he feared that his own capacity for self control would betray the both of you. He simply wasn’t ready to test the bounds of your comfort given your history.

You threw yourself next to him with a graceless bob of the mattress.

“Enlighten me, my beautiful detective.” You reconnected your palm to his member, reveling in the tensing of his muscles. “What else do you simply  _ despise  _ about today?”

Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. You pressed your lips to his cheek as you continued to stroke him. 

“It’s, the,” he stammered. 

“Yes?”

“Cake is just…”

“You already told me about the cake. But if there’s more, by all means, go ahead.”

You leaned in to nip and suck on his shoulder. Sherlock held his breath as his mental focus drifted off to, well, certainly not here. He squeezed his eyes closed even tighter as a low growl rumbled from deep within his throat.

“You do get me all to yourself,” you hummed.

“As if you can...GO anywhere.”

“With you like this, why would I want to?”

You swung our legs over his hips, lowering yourself to kiss him with your own arousal. Rocking your hips gently, you brought your lips a breath away from his. 

“Let me take care of you, my love.”

With a grunt, Sherlock graced you with a few rapid nods. You removed yourself from him just enough to strip him of his trousers and pants. 

Placing your knees on either side of his hips, you bit your lip and eyed him. One palm kneading your breast and the other diving between your legs, you kindly raised him to the proper angle for optimal enjoyment.

Eyes fluttering closed, Sherlock’s head descended to the pillow one again. Now, for the only time in his life, he felt quite grateful to be so hopeless.

You swiped his tip across your own pleasure center, inciting a soft cry of helplessness to sing through you. Needing full physical focus, you placed your palm to his chest as you slowly sheathed him inside you.

The degree to which you felt every bit of him was, in the truest sense of the word, torturous. 

You accompanied his pleasured groan with a harmony of your own whimpers. Your heart was grateful to race in the witness of such beauty—rather than terror—for once.

When you were flush against his pelvis, you rocked your hips at an alarmingly slow pace.

He latched his palms to you, digging in as a silent plea for additional stimulation. Sherlock was, admittedly, more distracted than usual to appreciate the softness of your skin as he always did.

But you sucked in a breath and stared at him with wide eyes.

“Trust me.” You nodded at him.

Gritting his teeth, he rested his head back as the muscles in his neck relaxed. You leaned over to tangle your lips with his.

Tracing your fingers across his shoulders and chest, Sherlock’s body melted under command of your touch. All sense of control seemed to be lost to you. When you finished exorcising the tension from him, you raised yourself upright again.

Pressing your palms to his sternum, you leaned forward and increased the pace of your hips. Your rate of change was painfully disproportionate to the development of your mutual desire. But you stayed committed to your cause and allowed your need to build.

And build.

And build.

“I’ve got you,” you breathed, studying the way the muscles in his stomach tensed. Sherlock swallowed and tightened his grip around you. But after a deep breath, he succumbed to your cruel method of celebration.

You certainly would be the death of him. And there would be no Sherlock Holmes to solve that case.

As sweat glistened from the both of you, you tangled your fingers in his hair and lowered your lips to his. You gently tugged on his strands during the exchange of affection before bolting upright again.

A relieved groan burst through his throat as you rediscovered a rhythm that was more suitable for your appreciation of the detective. Your breath hastened to a pant as your hips continued to eagerly snap back and forth.

Sherlock muttered an incoherent string of curses...or were they blessings? At this point, he wasn’t sure if he was condemning or worshiping you. And, quite frankly, he didn’t care what otherworldly being possessed your body as he felt the rising, rising, rising pleasure of your skin against his.

Soft moans dripped from your lips as you painted him with a shameless mural of your devotion. For once, you were the one studying him as he rolled his head back and his muscles clenched in anticipation: in a constant dissonance of relaxation and tension.

“You are exquisite,” you praised.

He could only grunt in reply.

Time lost to his senses, Sherlock’s eyes bolted open.

“I can’t,” he gasped.

“Of course you can. You are doing an exceptional job.”

“But you—”

“Love you very much.”

And in three, four, five grinding tilts of your hips, you ended him.

Sherlock’s hands clamped down on you, indenting crescent moons on your heated skin. A gentle smile graced your lips as you witnessed his ecstasy. 

It was a brilliant look for him, after all.

After a generous stretch of time, Sherlock’s senses returned to this physical plane. You gently removed yourself from him. He gasped at the change of sensation. 

As you stepped to the floor to retreat to the bathroom, he thwarted your escape. Wrapping his hand around your wrist, he pulled you back to bed and next to him.

“Something you need?” You raised your eyebrows.

But he only stared at you with wide eyes.

“Considerate one you are.” You smirked. “Don’t worry, my brilliant detective.”

Tracing the side of his face, you pressed your lips to his. 

“You can devastate me later.”

You could feel his smirk on your lips as you withdrew. Bouncing to your feet, you entered the doorway to the bathroom. But you spun around to offer him a final glance.

“Happy birthday, Sherlock Holmes.”

Chuckling, Sherlock threw his head back and dragged his hands down his face. 

Already quite keen on following through on your word later that night.


	5. February: Merry Christmas

Standing in his office, Greg handed a folder to Sherlock. He drew in a deep breath and crossed his arms. 

“We know it’s the wife. I just don’t know how to prove it when we have CCTV footage and multiple eye witness accounts that she was at St. James Park at the time of the murder.”

Sherlock scrutinized the photos of the blonde woman jogging in the park. He smirked at her hot pink hat and scanned the witness statements.

“Clever.”

“She had a few years left on the prenup,” Greg added. “Apparently couldn’t wait. Personal trainer was quite...convincing.”

“At least it wasn’t the PE teacher.” Sherlock flipped through the evidence.

“Sherlock.” John glared at him.

Sherlock closed the file and returned it to Greg.

“Simple. Developed a meticulous routine of jogging every morning. Stops to chat with Mr. Lewis. Gives spare change to the homeless woman. Purchases a coffee at the cart on the way home.”

“Yes, she said she’s training for a marathon. Hence the, er, affair.”

“Oh, but you missed the best part. Last week, she sent someone else in her stead. Another woman in her identifiable pink hat waved to Mr. Lewis, donated her spare change, and purchased the precise coffee order. Double espresso, I believe. Counting calories after all.”

John chuckled. “And you say it’s never twins.”

“Doppelganger, John. There’s a difference.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “You’re telling me another woman went running around posing like her while she offed her husband?”

“Congratulations, Lestrade. You get to solve two murders today. She’s also the one who killed—”

“The prostitute in the alley,” Greg groaned. “That was her twin.”

Sherlock started furiously typing away on his mobile. Furrowing his brow he paused, eyes flickering to Greg for just a moment.

“Doppelganger,” he corrected.

Sherlock resumed typing. Greg sighed and nodded to John.

“Thanks for coming in. I’d stop by. But last time...”

Greg glared at Sherlock. Eyes glued to the screen, Sherlock’s lip twitched.

“I could feel your stupidity lingering. Best contain it here.”

“Right.” Greg glanced at John. “Because this is about _me._ ”

“We’re happy to help,” John sighed.

Greg cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Was that woman part of your homeless network? Interrogating her over a text message?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Grayson. I’m not interrogating anyone.” Sherlock hit send and pocketed his phone. “I’m having sex.”

He spun around and strutted out of Scotland Yard.

Back at 221B Baker Street, your mobile buzzed on Sherlock’s side of the bed. Eyes still closed, you groaned as you patted the sheets in search of the elusive device.

You grumbled yourself awake as your vision focused to read your latest text. But six words into the message, your pupils blew wide open and you tossed your phone across the bed.

“Oh my G—” You threw your hands over your mouth.

Sucking in a breath, you took a moment to recalibrate. When your better senses returned, you reached over the mattress and plucked your mobile from the blankets. Your eyes scanned the rest of the message as your cheeks flushed with heat.

You smirked as you watched Sherlock start, stop, restart, then stop another text. As he started typing again, you put the poor man out his misery with a reply.

_Get back here NOW._

Not good? SH

_Ditch John._

Sherlock spun around and opened his mouth to speak. But John cut him off before he could begin.

“Twenty minutes. I’m giving you twenty minutes.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“But—”

“Hold on.” John held up a finger as he answered his phone. “You two are disgu—”

But he snapped his jaw shut and pouted his lip. Sherlock studied John’s face as he nodded twice. John’s eyes widened and he sucked in a breath.

“Alright.”

He hung up and stared at Sherlock.

“An hour.”

“What did she offer you?” Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“Fifty-nine minutes.” John tapped the face of his watch and spun around, leaving Sherlock to scramble for a cab.

Forty-seven minutes later, you strutted into the kitchen with one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns hanging from your shoulders. But upon sight of your uninvited guest, you stumbled backward and clamored to cover yourself.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” you protested.

“My, how we’ve fallen from grace.”

“What are you doing here?” You threw your head back.

“You’ve certainly slowed down. Getting cozy?”

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, my brother does have that effect on people.”

Hair ruffled in a tangled mess of curls, Sherlock dashed out of the bedroom. His state of dress was considerably more appropriate than yours.

“Get out,” he barked.

“Trust me, I’m uninterested in staying any longer than necessary.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

You crossed your arms and leaned forward.

“What do you want?”

“Mother wants to know if you’ll be at Christmas this year.” He eyed Sherlock.

“What? It’s…”

“February,” you finished.

“What can I say? She’s campaigning earlier than usual.”

You stared at Sherlock and tilted your head to the side. Maintaining eye contact with you, he opened his mouth to speak. But then the words failed to leave his mouth...

“No?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Pity. She’ll be devastated. But if you’re so determined to hide away and—”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’ll be there.”

“Oh for God’s sake. You’re not really bringing her along are you?”

“Standing right here.” You glared at him. 

Sherlock wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you close. He flashed Mycroft a haunting smile.

“I’m sure you’ve told them all about her to avoid any curious questions about your personal life. So yes. We’ll be there. And you better be too unless you want to dissa—”

Mycroft withdrew his mobile.

“Did you hear that?” he groaned into the receiver.

After a pause, he rolled his eyes.

“Yes...yes...I…” Mycroft held his hand over his mouth. “Iloveyoutoobye.”

He hung up and puffed out his chest.

“Well, I tried.”

“No, you didn’t.” Sherlock scrunched his face.

“I _tried_ to get us out of this. Normally we make it at least every four years. But apparently I’m losing my touch.”

“Or you’re not as clever as you think you are.”

“Now Sherlock, leave the lying to...is it ‘this woman’ or ‘the woman’? I can never be bothered to keep up with you. Either way, we both know that’s not true.”

“Are you done?” You glared at him.

Shielding his eyes, John slowly inched into the sitting room from the stairs.

“I’m back and everyone better be...Mycroft?”

“Ah, yes. What a world that would be.” 

He strutted out of the flat. 

You tightened the dressing gown closer to your body and swallowed.

“Thanks, John.”

“Yeah...um, anytime…” He stared at the open door. “What was that about?”

“Have plans for Christmas?” Sherlock asked.

“Christmas? But it’s…”

“February,” you finished.

“Then...no.”

“Now you do.” You shrugged. “Now we all do apparently.”

“Alright.” John glanced to the side. He drew in a breath before returning his eyes to you, flash of mischief dancing behind them. “Next mission?”

Sherlock threw his head back and groaned. “Not again.”

You smacked his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry yourself, my brilliant detective. You’re not allowed to play with us anyway.”

“Not, what? Not allowed?”

John snickered. “You spend half an hour trying to walk up the stairs. Then blew yourself up by throwing a grenade in the corner.”

You tossed a controller to John.

“It’s _impossible_ to coordinate!” Sherlock whined.

You hopped in Sherlock’s chair and John returned to his own seat. Firing up the console, you glanced at Sherlock.

“I thought this was a waste of your brilliant mind anyway?”

“There’s nothing else to do.” He plopped on the floor in front of you.

“Visit Molly?” you hummed, navigating through the game menu.

“She kicked me out.”

“For what?”

“Beca—”

“John.” 

You redirected your attention. Sherlock whipped his head around and furrowed his brow.

“What level should we do?” you asked. “We powered through the last one.”

“Legendary. I’m a soldier.”

Your eyes widened. “And I’ve never been on the battlefield. We’re going for Heroic.”

Sherlock whined.

“Oh yes.” You rubbed his shoulder. “What did you do to Molly?”

John started the game and skipped through the introductory sequence. When the mission started, you followed John’s lead through the digital terrain.

“She got mad becau—”

“John, I don’t think we should go that way. The arrow is pointing to the left.”

John furrowed his brow. “I don’t know. The screen makes it difficult to...oh, no. You’re right.”

“I WAS WATCHING TOO MUCH PORN!” Sherlock shouted.

“You did _what_ with her?” You stared at him, attention fully captured for a moment.

“EVE!” John jutted his controller at the television. You scrambled to help him eliminate the targets.

Sherlock crossed his arms and huffed. 

“I wasn’t watching _with_ her. It was purely edu—”

“That one has a plasma grenade!” you warned.

John’s character leaped backward. But it was too late. He threw his hands up as he waited to respawn.

“Just move to a safe location and I can get back in.”

“I can’t get away from these assholes!"

Sherlock leaned his head on your knee, bumping you just enough so that you joined John in the digital land of the dead.

“Sorry, Watson,” you muttered.

John threw his hands up and you waited for the level to restart.

“Wait.” You furrowed your brow at Sherlock. “Why the fuck were you watching porn with Molly?”

“I wasn’t watching _with_ her. It was educational. How else do you think I learned how to—”

“John!” you squeaked as he rushed you through the level.

“Do keep up, Eve!”

“Sorry, Sherlock. We can talk about you and Molly when we’re done with—OH C’MON!”

John snickered as his character pranced over your dead body in the lift.

“You needed more ammo.”

“We just started! And you could have given me a heads up,” you grumbled as your character respawned.

“I did. It’s called a headshot.”

You and John completed Halo 4 by the end of the day.

When it was finally time to sleep, you threw your back to the mattress and closed your eyes. Sherlock nestled his head by your shoulder. 

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

You bolted upright.

“Oh my God!” 

You whipped your head around to stare at him.

He smirked.

_Finally._

“You’ve been watching porn at the hospital to…” Your eyes went wide. “That’s where you learned how to…”

You blinked rapidly and fell back to the pillow.

After a moment’s recalibration, you turned to look at him.

“Show me again?” you whispered, tracing the side of his face with your thumb.

Sherlock snickered. 

Having your full attention once again, he didn’t need to be asked twice.


	6. March: Little Jerks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr kiss prompt #16: One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.

With John close on his heels, Sherlock marched into Scotland Yard. He strutted to Greg’s office. But upon seeing a gaggle of young boys—faces decorated with bruises and blood—he came to halt. 

Crouched in front of them, Greg nodded to one of their mothers.

“I assure you, ma’am, we will find the person who did this.”

“We already know who did!” one of the boys whined. “It was Noah!”

“And the  _ adult _ who encouraged him to attack you.” His mother stroked his back. “Detective, it’s just negligent!”

Greg popped to his feet and put his hands in his pockets. “I absolutely agree. Leave your contact information and I’ll be in touch.”

He spun around and immediately rolled his eyes upon seeing Sherlock.

“I’m relieved you found a case more suitable for your capabilities,” Sherlock snickered.

John put his hands on his hips and smirked. 

“Troubles with bullies on the playground?”

“If you must know, one of their mum’s is a—”

“Political official.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Enough to bring you here like a dog on a leash.”

“What do you want?” Greg glared at him.

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, Greg waved a finger in his face. 

“No, actually, here’s what you can do for me. Solve this case in the two seconds it will take you and I can get my day back.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched as John crossed his arms.

“How can we help?” John asked.

“We got a name but as far as we know she’s a woman who lives in America.”

“Who?” 

“Lisa Braeden.”

With a groan, Sherlock turned around and walked away. Greg threw out his hand and John scurried behind the consulting detective.

“Just where are you—” Greg started.

“I’m sure you’ll find her, Lestrade. Best of luck with the angry mothers. You should be used to it.”

Sitting on a bench at St. James Park, you sipped on your coffee and observed the public as they walked by. But you sucked in a breath at the sight of Sherlock and John.

They sat on either side of you, identifying you regardless of your hat, sunglasses, and atypical dress. As you raised your cup to take a sip, Sherlock swiped it from you and enjoyed a gulp.

“Lestrade is looking for you,” he hummed.

“He should have no idea that I’m out of the flat.”

“Not about your house arrest.”

John leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “You beat up those kids?”

“I did not such thing!” You sat back and crossed your arms. “I merely taught that one kid how to punch back.”

“And?” 

“Okay! And I tripped one of them.”

Sherlock passed the coffee back to you. But you lifted the empty cup and gave him a deadpan expression.

“Oh, c’mon.”

John furrowed his brow. “Sherlock, how did you—”

“You need some new aliases,” the detective replied.

You threw your head backward and groaned. Crossing your legs, you pouted your lip and picked at the cardboard sleeve along the side of the cup.

“Those kids were assholes,” you grumbled.

But to your surprise, Sherlock leaned in and kissed your dissatisfied lips. You raised your eyebrows and returned the gesture until he pulled away. Wrapping his hand along the nape of your neck, he smirked.

“I don’t doubt it.”


	7. April: RIP Gerald

John returned to the flat to the startling sound of sniffles and whimpers. Cautiously opening the door, he furrowed his brow to see you curled up in Sherlock’s chair with your knees to your chest.

“Eve…”

“I tried so hard to do all the right things.”

“What happened?”

With careful steps, he approached the side of the chair and crouched next to you.

“I did everything I could to learn everything he likes. I followed it to the letter. Maybe I just can’t...what’s wrong with me?”

“Where’s Sherlock? What did he do?”

“Nothing! This was all my fault!”

Drawing in a breath, John rose to his feet. But just as he withdrew his mobile, Sherlock stomped from his room with a textbook in hand. 

“What did you do to her?” John snipped.

Sherlock pursed his lips and flipped through the pages. He muttered under his breath and you hung your head and groaned.

Eye twitching, John’s gaze flickered between you. He wasn’t sure who was more difficult to get information from when neither of you was willing. But before he had to choose, Sherlock stamped his index finger to a page and shoved the book in your face.

“There.”

“What? I don’t...I don’t under—”

“Read.”

Biting your lip, you followed Sherlock’s instructions.

John put his hands on his hips and looked between you.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?”

“We’re solving a murder. Honestly, John.” 

Sherlock strode behind you. Leaning in, he studied your face as your eyes scanned the page.

“This is for a client? I thought you weren’t—”

“Does she look like a client? I thought we were past this.”

John furrowed his brow. “Eve...who died?”

“Gerald.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Greg is dead?!”

“No, John. Gerald. Or are you actually that irresponsible with your friends’ names?”

John shook your shoulder to break you from your trance.

“Eve, what happened to Greg?”

“Wha...He came by and checked the batteries in my ankle monitor. I offered him a brownie and he said he’d rather die. And then I said I would have a much more intimate way to kill him and he left. Why?”

“Who the hell is Gerald?!”

Grumbling to himself, Sherlock marched to the bedroom. He emerged with a tiny pot, shriveled succulent barely sprouting from the remorseful rocks.

Graptoveria.

In case anyone cared.

He slammed the pot on the mantle next to the skull.

“Gerald.”

“Now they can be dead together,” you sniffled. “I killed him!”

“Root rot killed it.”

Sherlock yanked the book from your hand and tossed it aside. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Perhaps you should avoid all homemaking activities.”

“Yeah...maybe I should just stick to murder.”

“Solving murders?” John asked with a tinge of doomed hope in his voice. 

More for your sanity than the safety of your victims. 

In case anyone cared.

Sherlock smirked. “The Knightsbridge political advisor.”

“The case you said you couldn’t help Lestrade with because you had to babysit a plant?” John’s eyes widened. “Oh my God. You two are mad.”

“I’m just going to hide in bed for the rest of the day,” you grumbled and rose to your feet. 

As you sulked to the bedroom, Sherlock started to follow after you. But John grabbed him by the wrist.

“What did he do?”

“The streets of London now have one fewer violent white supremacist.”

He snickered before crawling in bed with you. Placing a kiss on your shoulder, he murmured on to your skin.

“I think I overwatered it.”

“You what?!” 

You flipped over and stared at him. He grimaced. 

“I thought you forgot about it.”

“So we were both watering Gerald?”

“And we killed it.”

You rolled back over and buried your face in your pillow.

“Good thing we’re never going to be parents.”

With a smirk, Sherlock nestled closer to you. But after a moment of studying the rhythm of your breathing (as he so often did), he furrowed his brow.

“How exactly would you kill Lestrade?”

“Maybe I should try needlepoint.”

“Strangulation is certainly an intimate method of murder.”

“If I’m stabbing something…”

You and Sherlock spent the afternoon lost in your own thoughts, drifting in and out of sleep. 

John, for one, worshipped the silence. 

He wouldn’t mention that he watered your plant every time you were in the shower. He knew exactly what you did to killers, after all.


End file.
